I think I can manage being collateral damage
Ever nods, though it’s less a response and more a reflex—something his body does as her voice curls through him like a ribbon of heat. The moment is all touch and texture, too fast and too much and still not enough. His fingers move automatically, precise and trembling, drawing her dress upward in loose folds and gathering the fabric into one hand. The other slips low, fitting perfectly to the swell of her ass, and the breath he exhales against her lips is half-sigh, half-groan, the sound of logic crumpling.
He's not thinking, at least, not the way he usually does. Not in terms of safety protocols or ideal environments or whether this qualifies as proper field conditions. It’s just Isla—her kiss, her voice, the warm press of her against the stiff outline of his cock that has his thoughts sparking out like frayed wires.
Her hands are already at his belt, and trusting her to finish what she started, Ever fumbles just enough to tug the waistband of his pants lower, baring himself to the cool, curtained air. Somewhere in the periphery, he registers the low clatter of something being knocked over—a hanger maybe, or a folded sign—but he doesn't stop. His hand slips free from Isla’s dress just long enough to reach back, sweeping aside a decorative card from the top of a squat wooden log meant for display, revealing a flat-enough surface underneath.
He takes a few careful steps backward, never letting go of her waist. Then he sits, breath unsteady, gaze fixed on her like he might unravel otherwise.
He's not thinking, at least, not the way he usually does. Not in terms of safety protocols or ideal environments or whether this qualifies as proper field conditions. It’s just Isla—her kiss, her voice, the warm press of her against the stiff outline of his cock that has his thoughts sparking out like frayed wires.
Her hands are already at his belt, and trusting her to finish what she started, Ever fumbles just enough to tug the waistband of his pants lower, baring himself to the cool, curtained air. Somewhere in the periphery, he registers the low clatter of something being knocked over—a hanger maybe, or a folded sign—but he doesn't stop. His hand slips free from Isla’s dress just long enough to reach back, sweeping aside a decorative card from the top of a squat wooden log meant for display, revealing a flat-enough surface underneath.
He takes a few careful steps backward, never letting go of her waist. Then he sits, breath unsteady, gaze fixed on her like he might unravel otherwise.
.
