Honey wherever you go, I know
The drift of his eyes is one that slowly retraces each slope and curve that he remembers over the expanse of her bare back, skipping across the small marks or lines that designate the location he's rebuilt in memory alone night after night. Even the lines carved into her sides by Dahlia. It halts as it finally finds the tilt of her stare over her shoulder, her feigned offense worn just as well as any of her clothing. Her performances are something he could never tire of, always eager to see her cleverness on display, to test the limits of her commitment (the limit does not exist, in his experience). A smirk answers her false shock. "I have, yes, thanks for asking," he murmurs as though she'd offered nothing more than to teach him something he already well knew.
Beneath the careful study of her gaze he stands a little straighter, expression openly devouring her in return. He'd not intended for anything to grow hot besides the shower when he'd first suggested it, but all the past desires he'd had here of what to do with her in this cozy space, they return wild with the temptation of her bare skin and fishing stare.
They race like unleashed greyhounds in his mind, new ones threading in amongst the pack, as he bears witness to the show of denim removal. It's a wonder he doesn't end up tipping the plate of nachos completely to the floor at that point, awareness of his own whereabouts utterly dispersed—he's there where the fabric glides off her skin, unfurling beneath the line of her thumb, rolling under the hem that she drags down. He finds his way back into his own body when the towel falls as a curtain over the end of a show, and he is left blinking, chasing the after images of nothing but lace cupping her ass.
When she draws close, the jasmine arrives with her, curling like a finger beneath his chin. He tilts his head faintly, gaze sliding with her as she skirts past with a whisper of contact. His hand twitches at his side, begging for restraint to yield and drag her thigh back.
The snap of the chip is one he feels in his toes. "I beg to differ." It's drawled out long and low, the faintest tug of a smirk pulling on one side. "Everything is poolside these days, so seems many people prefer it wet." Nachos, in fact, would be terrible wet. They would also be terrible cold and hardened, so it seems their only solution is to eat them before they get soggy, or, as he's fully intending, to forget them entirely for the sake of a different meal.
"Worth trying to find out," he murmurs, setting the plate down to the side of the sink, doing whatever bending is necessary to keep her wholly in view as long as possible. "You don't seem nearly soaked enough for this to even count though," he remarks with concern, flicking his attention down to her feet and then back up, one hand reaching out to claim an edge of her towel.
Beneath the careful study of her gaze he stands a little straighter, expression openly devouring her in return. He'd not intended for anything to grow hot besides the shower when he'd first suggested it, but all the past desires he'd had here of what to do with her in this cozy space, they return wild with the temptation of her bare skin and fishing stare.
They race like unleashed greyhounds in his mind, new ones threading in amongst the pack, as he bears witness to the show of denim removal. It's a wonder he doesn't end up tipping the plate of nachos completely to the floor at that point, awareness of his own whereabouts utterly dispersed—he's there where the fabric glides off her skin, unfurling beneath the line of her thumb, rolling under the hem that she drags down. He finds his way back into his own body when the towel falls as a curtain over the end of a show, and he is left blinking, chasing the after images of nothing but lace cupping her ass.
When she draws close, the jasmine arrives with her, curling like a finger beneath his chin. He tilts his head faintly, gaze sliding with her as she skirts past with a whisper of contact. His hand twitches at his side, begging for restraint to yield and drag her thigh back.
The snap of the chip is one he feels in his toes. "I beg to differ." It's drawled out long and low, the faintest tug of a smirk pulling on one side. "Everything is poolside these days, so seems many people prefer it wet." Nachos, in fact, would be terrible wet. They would also be terrible cold and hardened, so it seems their only solution is to eat them before they get soggy, or, as he's fully intending, to forget them entirely for the sake of a different meal.
"Worth trying to find out," he murmurs, setting the plate down to the side of the sink, doing whatever bending is necessary to keep her wholly in view as long as possible. "You don't seem nearly soaked enough for this to even count though," he remarks with concern, flicking his attention down to her feet and then back up, one hand reaching out to claim an edge of her towel.
Kaisel
I'd give up half of forever, just to be with you
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
