[It's a snarl that ends in a moan, low and ragged, nearly as pained as it is pleased. It's just too much: every movement of his tongue is like a shockwave of heat searing through her, leaving her nerves standing on end, her body shaking beneath the tight grip of his fingers. She writhes against him, but it's not a conscious effort to get away, not anymore; she simply can't help it. Each flick and drag of his tongue has her whining, and she finally removes her hand from his hair, both reaching up and behind her to grip the fabric of the couch.]
You b-bastard-- that's not-- that's not what I meant and you know-- fuck!
[She shrieks that out as he teases at her entrance, taunting her with what he most emphatically isn't giving her right now. It's a substitute, nothing more, and while it's theoretically better than nothing, Rosalind finds it worse, because now the ache is all the fiercer. She wants-- she wants nothing and everything all at once, she wants him to pull away and at the same time she wants him to shove two fingers into her, stretching her open and filling her up; she wants him to keep forcing her into this, arrogant thing that he is, giving her no choice at all and bending her to his will, and yet she also wants him to obey, because it's infuriating that he won't. He's infuriating, he's overwhelming, he's addicting, and Rosalind knows right now she won't be able to limit herself to just one night.
But that's not really a thought, because she isn't thinking. She pants down at him in open-mouthed desire, blue eyes locked on gold, her own frantic where his are smug and self-satisfied. Perhaps she ought to shove her hand over her mouth again, muffling herself purely to deny him. Perhaps she ought to just lie back and take it, giving up on the idea of retorting in any fashion. But Rosalind has never taken well to simply losing, never mind going silent; though her chest is heaving and her voice is ragged, she still forces the words out.]
I s-swear the moment you let me go I'm going to slap you-- at least put your fingers to me!
[She's definitely going to get a noise complaint. Oh, well.]
no subject
[It's a snarl that ends in a moan, low and ragged, nearly as pained as it is pleased. It's just too much: every movement of his tongue is like a shockwave of heat searing through her, leaving her nerves standing on end, her body shaking beneath the tight grip of his fingers. She writhes against him, but it's not a conscious effort to get away, not anymore; she simply can't help it. Each flick and drag of his tongue has her whining, and she finally removes her hand from his hair, both reaching up and behind her to grip the fabric of the couch.]
You b-bastard-- that's not-- that's not what I meant and you know-- fuck!
[She shrieks that out as he teases at her entrance, taunting her with what he most emphatically isn't giving her right now. It's a substitute, nothing more, and while it's theoretically better than nothing, Rosalind finds it worse, because now the ache is all the fiercer. She wants-- she wants nothing and everything all at once, she wants him to pull away and at the same time she wants him to shove two fingers into her, stretching her open and filling her up; she wants him to keep forcing her into this, arrogant thing that he is, giving her no choice at all and bending her to his will, and yet she also wants him to obey, because it's infuriating that he won't. He's infuriating, he's overwhelming, he's addicting, and Rosalind knows right now she won't be able to limit herself to just one night.
But that's not really a thought, because she isn't thinking. She pants down at him in open-mouthed desire, blue eyes locked on gold, her own frantic where his are smug and self-satisfied. Perhaps she ought to shove her hand over her mouth again, muffling herself purely to deny him. Perhaps she ought to just lie back and take it, giving up on the idea of retorting in any fashion. But Rosalind has never taken well to simply losing, never mind going silent; though her chest is heaving and her voice is ragged, she still forces the words out.]
I s-swear the moment you let me go I'm going to slap you-- at least put your fingers to me!
[She's definitely going to get a noise complaint. Oh, well.]