Let's make tonight the weekend, I don't wanna wait
His breath comes out with the rough edge of a short laugh, well aware of that particular night and the surprise kiss she'd granted him, easily passed off as nothing serious then. "Yes," he agrees of the memory, "and you did such a terrible job transferring your lipstick that Mateo accosted me with his own stick shortly thereafter." His lips twitch with the image of it all in his mind. "I don't count that as our first kiss though," although it certainly does suit the chaos of everything else they've managed to do. "That one belongs to the Sugar Tide," he tells her instead, voice softer with that much more tender, fragile memory where things had been risked. That moonlit night fades as he starts to focus on the task at hand.
An agreeing mumble is all that he returns her comment with, because it's really all in the fine print. The one that clearly states if she's going to undress in front of him, he's powerless to completely withhold himself from her. Each jolt of her body in response to his attention, and the taut hum of want he feels just underneath is delicious. He doesn't mean to cut her treatment short on his behalf though, so torture is all she'll be getting, at least for the time being. "You really should be more thorough when you put your name to something," he admonishes with a devil's lilt to his voice, shifting beside her as he grabs the bowl of clay warmed into a liquid.
"All part of the preparations," he reassures her, as if winding her up is the only way he'll find where to release her. A brush dabs into the mud, and with him as an artist and her body the canvas, he paints her into a portrait of the earth. Each stroke is long and careful, spreading the thick balm of the mineral soup across most of her skin, avoiding sensitive areas. It will dry like a curing mask, pulling her skin taut into the coating of it, and that's when he asks her to turn over so he can similarly attend to her back. That'd been half the reason for the towels he laid down on the makeshift table.
When she turns, her cucumbers will sadly be lost to the wreathe of the towel he offers for her face to sink into. He'll start with the hot towels again, at least on the main part of her torso where he hadn't been able to reach before. "Why'd you decide to become queen?" he asks as he waits for her to settle back down before proceeding, since they're wandering down a memory lane that is only brushing past old tragedies like a rose garden they're not going to pluck any flowers from. Towel in hand, he tugs down on the space between her shoulder blades, pulling the movement low and long before sweeping off to her side. The dip of her lower back into the rise of her ass is a place he spends longer on, thumb appraising the impressive scope of the curves to be found there.
An agreeing mumble is all that he returns her comment with, because it's really all in the fine print. The one that clearly states if she's going to undress in front of him, he's powerless to completely withhold himself from her. Each jolt of her body in response to his attention, and the taut hum of want he feels just underneath is delicious. He doesn't mean to cut her treatment short on his behalf though, so torture is all she'll be getting, at least for the time being. "You really should be more thorough when you put your name to something," he admonishes with a devil's lilt to his voice, shifting beside her as he grabs the bowl of clay warmed into a liquid.
"All part of the preparations," he reassures her, as if winding her up is the only way he'll find where to release her. A brush dabs into the mud, and with him as an artist and her body the canvas, he paints her into a portrait of the earth. Each stroke is long and careful, spreading the thick balm of the mineral soup across most of her skin, avoiding sensitive areas. It will dry like a curing mask, pulling her skin taut into the coating of it, and that's when he asks her to turn over so he can similarly attend to her back. That'd been half the reason for the towels he laid down on the makeshift table.
When she turns, her cucumbers will sadly be lost to the wreathe of the towel he offers for her face to sink into. He'll start with the hot towels again, at least on the main part of her torso where he hadn't been able to reach before. "Why'd you decide to become queen?" he asks as he waits for her to settle back down before proceeding, since they're wandering down a memory lane that is only brushing past old tragedies like a rose garden they're not going to pluck any flowers from. Towel in hand, he tugs down on the space between her shoulder blades, pulling the movement low and long before sweeping off to her side. The dip of her lower back into the rise of her ass is a place he spends longer on, thumb appraising the impressive scope of the curves to be found there.
Kaisel
Got no reason not to celebrate
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
