The prospect thereof prompts an amused glance back over her shoulder — and it's hard to deny the appeal of just burrowing back down into the bedding beside him, taking in how much closer he is when he sits up and the dissipating warmth where his hand was on her back. It takes some stern self-discipline to slide off the side of the bed—
although leaving is not any quicker a process than undressing her was, as she yanks her slouching stockings toward her thighs instead of finally taking them off, searching around the mess they've made for where she discarded this and that. The chemise is the only part she bothers pulling back on; she'll ring a servant for a bath when she's in her own room, she decides, acutely conscious now she's standing up that she is leaking. The rest of her clothes she flings into a pile and uses her skirts like a sack, gathering her cloak around herself for the sake of— well, not modesty. Discretion. Making the prospect of bumping into anyone else marginally less awkward. The last thing she gathers up are her boots, taking in the room for a moment to be sure he's not going to have to shove her smallclothes in a pocket before someone tidies this room,
and him, in tangled bedsheets and out of clothing.
Self-discipline only goes so far. Gwenaëlle leans a hand on the edge of the bed and leans closer, her pile of things to be urgently laundered shoved under one arm, catching him in a kiss that would be briefer if making sure he's still thinking about her when she's gone wasn't mostly the point.
“Goodnight, Stephen.”
Stockings are quieter on tile than barefeet. The door slips shut terribly softly behind her, and there's nothing to strain listening to, just— quiet.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
portalling) wrote2022-04-02 01:17 pm
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
no subject
although leaving is not any quicker a process than undressing her was, as she yanks her slouching stockings toward her thighs instead of finally taking them off, searching around the mess they've made for where she discarded this and that. The chemise is the only part she bothers pulling back on; she'll ring a servant for a bath when she's in her own room, she decides, acutely conscious now she's standing up that she is leaking. The rest of her clothes she flings into a pile and uses her skirts like a sack, gathering her cloak around herself for the sake of— well, not modesty. Discretion. Making the prospect of bumping into anyone else marginally less awkward. The last thing she gathers up are her boots, taking in the room for a moment to be sure he's not going to have to shove her smallclothes in a pocket before someone tidies this room,
and him, in tangled bedsheets and out of clothing.
Self-discipline only goes so far. Gwenaëlle leans a hand on the edge of the bed and leans closer, her pile of things to be urgently laundered shoved under one arm, catching him in a kiss that would be briefer if making sure he's still thinking about her when she's gone wasn't mostly the point.
“Goodnight, Stephen.”
Stockings are quieter on tile than barefeet. The door slips shut terribly softly behind her, and there's nothing to strain listening to, just— quiet.