[She'd had a vague thought to lead him to the bedroom, if only because there's more room for them there, but apparently that's right off the table. Rosalind hisses in shock as she's first thrown down and then yanked forward, and just like that his mouth is on her. And that's wonderful, that's fantastic, and she's all ready to spread her legs and fall back against the couch, except--
Except he doesn't yank at her panties. He doesn't tear them off (and she'd had half a mind to warn him not to tear, nor to dig in with his claws as he gripped her ankles, because both stockings and lingerie are expensive and she's not made of money, except saying all that would require being able to think much in the first place). No, he simply mouths at her, his tongue hot and yet removed, there and yet not, utterly infuriating in the tease of it all.]
Bigby--
[Rosalind shoves her panties down low on her hips, trying to encourage him to remove them entirely. Her other hand smooths through his hair, sweeping it back away from his face. She doesn't try and control him, not yet, though she's throbbing beneath his attentions, needy and yet not at all getting what she wants. Each time he nips at the fabric she jerks, her hips lifting up, because surely now will be the time when he tugs them down--]
Properly-- go on, I k-know you know how--
[He hasn't even gotten his mouth on her and she's already stuttering, but on the other hand, how is she to help it? She's impossibly wet for him, riled up from the bar and the way he'd groped at her; the heavy heat of his cock in her mouth and the lingering aftertaste he'd left behind; and above all that heat, pulsing through her and leaving her far needier than normal.
Her free hand comes up again, tugging at her blouse. In a moment she's loosened the buttons; it hangs open, framing a pale torso and the curve of her breasts, held sweetly in place by a bra that matches the panties he still hasn't pulled down.]
never be sorry for tl;dr
Except he doesn't yank at her panties. He doesn't tear them off (and she'd had half a mind to warn him not to tear, nor to dig in with his claws as he gripped her ankles, because both stockings and lingerie are expensive and she's not made of money, except saying all that would require being able to think much in the first place). No, he simply mouths at her, his tongue hot and yet removed, there and yet not, utterly infuriating in the tease of it all.]
Bigby--
[Rosalind shoves her panties down low on her hips, trying to encourage him to remove them entirely. Her other hand smooths through his hair, sweeping it back away from his face. She doesn't try and control him, not yet, though she's throbbing beneath his attentions, needy and yet not at all getting what she wants. Each time he nips at the fabric she jerks, her hips lifting up, because surely now will be the time when he tugs them down--]
Properly-- go on, I k-know you know how--
[He hasn't even gotten his mouth on her and she's already stuttering, but on the other hand, how is she to help it? She's impossibly wet for him, riled up from the bar and the way he'd groped at her; the heavy heat of his cock in her mouth and the lingering aftertaste he'd left behind; and above all that heat, pulsing through her and leaving her far needier than normal.
Her free hand comes up again, tugging at her blouse. In a moment she's loosened the buttons; it hangs open, framing a pale torso and the curve of her breasts, held sweetly in place by a bra that matches the panties he still hasn't pulled down.]
Or are you waiting for an order?