VESPER
Vesper against Colt's mouth, a low, indulgent thing that vibrates through his chest and into hers. "Then I’ll pay the cost," he murmurs, the words slipping into the curve of her throat like a promise. If he crushes the flower, he'll plant her an entire fucking meadow of 'em to make up for it if she wants.
His hips press forward, and the hard length of him trapped in his pants grinds slow and hard against the heat of her. The friction is maddening. Delicious. She’s caged against the wall, just as much as he is in his clothes, and the tension in his arms betrays how badly he wants more; wants to feel her without a single thread between them. The wall at her back is almost poetic in its cruelty: it lets him pin her, yes, lets him feel the shudder of her breath against his mouth, but denies him the weight of her body drawn flush to his.
When she tells him to stop thinking, he almost laughs again—but doesn’t; he does, however, do precisely the opposite.
For a moment Vesper imagines how easy it would be. A quick twist of his fingers under the line of her panties, the seam pulled taut against her thigh until it gave with a satisfying snap. His shadows could shove his pants down in a breath, and he could be inside her in the next one—hard, rough, fast, just the way her thoughts had begged for earlier. The fantasy takes form behind his eyes, vivid and obscene, her legs around his waist, the dress bunched and twisted, her breath catching in his ear with every thrust.
But there’s a flaw in it. One he can’t ignore, no matter how tempting it is to give in.
If he fucked her here, they’d both be half-dressed, half-pinned, and should either of them want anything more—should he want to sink his teeth into her shoulder, or press his mouth between her thighs, or roll her beneath him to watch her fall apart—it’d mean a clumsy stumble, pants around his ankles, dress twisted like a sail in a storm. And that...would be a shame.
So he kisses her again, hot and hard and claiming, and while his mouth devours hers, his hands shift with purpose. One slips around her back, the other hooks beneath her thigh, securing her with ease against him. His shadows help him cradle her as he steps back from the wall, her body flush against his chest, dress still bunched around her hips. "There’s a time and place," he mutters against her lips, each word a breath between kisses, "for fuckin' a girl against a wall." He bites gently at her lower lip, the heat in his voice curling like smoke. "Hard. Fast. Messy." His eyes flick to hers, dark and glinting. "But tonight ain’t it."
And then he’s moving again, slow and steady, carrying her toward the mess of blankets and cushions they’d left behind—candles still flickering, shadows dancing around them like voyeurs. He doesn’t even pause when his foot nudges a wine bottle, sending it skittering across the floor with a soft thunk. Doesn’t care. He sinks to his knees with her still wrapped around him, the press of her thighs cradling his hips as he lowers into the makeshift bed they’d forgotten in favour of impatience. Only now, he plans to take his time. To unwrap her like a secret. To claim every inch of her, not rushed in the dark, but bathed in gold and candlelight. His plan might not be to make love to her, but he's sure as shit not going to rush it, either.
His hips press forward, and the hard length of him trapped in his pants grinds slow and hard against the heat of her. The friction is maddening. Delicious. She’s caged against the wall, just as much as he is in his clothes, and the tension in his arms betrays how badly he wants more; wants to feel her without a single thread between them. The wall at her back is almost poetic in its cruelty: it lets him pin her, yes, lets him feel the shudder of her breath against his mouth, but denies him the weight of her body drawn flush to his.
When she tells him to stop thinking, he almost laughs again—but doesn’t; he does, however, do precisely the opposite.
For a moment Vesper imagines how easy it would be. A quick twist of his fingers under the line of her panties, the seam pulled taut against her thigh until it gave with a satisfying snap. His shadows could shove his pants down in a breath, and he could be inside her in the next one—hard, rough, fast, just the way her thoughts had begged for earlier. The fantasy takes form behind his eyes, vivid and obscene, her legs around his waist, the dress bunched and twisted, her breath catching in his ear with every thrust.
But there’s a flaw in it. One he can’t ignore, no matter how tempting it is to give in.
If he fucked her here, they’d both be half-dressed, half-pinned, and should either of them want anything more—should he want to sink his teeth into her shoulder, or press his mouth between her thighs, or roll her beneath him to watch her fall apart—it’d mean a clumsy stumble, pants around his ankles, dress twisted like a sail in a storm. And that...would be a shame.
So he kisses her again, hot and hard and claiming, and while his mouth devours hers, his hands shift with purpose. One slips around her back, the other hooks beneath her thigh, securing her with ease against him. His shadows help him cradle her as he steps back from the wall, her body flush against his chest, dress still bunched around her hips. "There’s a time and place," he mutters against her lips, each word a breath between kisses, "for fuckin' a girl against a wall." He bites gently at her lower lip, the heat in his voice curling like smoke. "Hard. Fast. Messy." His eyes flick to hers, dark and glinting. "But tonight ain’t it."
And then he’s moving again, slow and steady, carrying her toward the mess of blankets and cushions they’d left behind—candles still flickering, shadows dancing around them like voyeurs. He doesn’t even pause when his foot nudges a wine bottle, sending it skittering across the floor with a soft thunk. Doesn’t care. He sinks to his knees with her still wrapped around him, the press of her thighs cradling his hips as he lowers into the makeshift bed they’d forgotten in favour of impatience. Only now, he plans to take his time. To unwrap her like a secret. To claim every inch of her, not rushed in the dark, but bathed in gold and candlelight. His plan might not be to make love to her, but he's sure as shit not going to rush it, either.
Will I ever quit playing with matches?
Why am I making angels in the ashes?
Why am I making angels in the ashes?
☆ has a pale star tattoo beneath his left eye, and freckle-sized constellations move across his skin
☽ hair changes from bleached blonde to brown
☆ telepathic: Sunlit Shadows | The user can read the surface thoughts and emotions of those within a 60ft radius. Control is excellent. Note: "Thoughts and emotions" include anything written in a character's narration in a post.
☽ hair changes from bleached blonde to brown
☆ telepathic: Sunlit Shadows | The user can read the surface thoughts and emotions of those within a 60ft radius. Control is excellent. Note: "Thoughts and emotions" include anything written in a character's narration in a post.
