Let's make tonight the weekend, I don't wanna wait
Although he knows she's adding emphasis, he can't withhold the narrowing of his gaze, catching the one she flicks back at him with the sharper angle and a disbelieving pause to his movements. "I have not been abusing your compass nearly enough." The words are dropped like a vow, quiet enough to only land in the space between skin and steam, but tight with promise. Although it's just a continuation of the playful threat, he certainly means it no less.
The unwinding of her hair resumes, but for all the care he attempts to provide, his attention ultimately drifts to the delicate slope of her neck, the line of her shoulders, the swell of her breasts that peek up from behind it all when the shower's fog permits. She is a work of art, and better for it that she's no statue. Although, he rather thinks there should be a few stone and metal dedications to her scattered around. Maybe that'll be a requirement for Floropolis, a bust every five miles or so.
Her hair shifts easy in his loose grip as she turns, threads spilling past his fingers like spun gold, dappled with beads of water that glint with the same quality of diamonds tossed against her crown. His extended arm lingers, less shower than dance floor for a moment as she spins. The swipe of her back against his chest leaves an unexpected sensation, one that elicits a gasp of surprise, gaze falling down to where the first smear of rehydrated clay marks him. It's slick in the wet heat of the shower, sliding off her with ease when touched, but too stubborn to wash away without encouragement due to a faint water-repelling trait. It's that which feels the most strange, making every area it layers against weirdly disconnected from the steady drum of the mock rain upon the rest of his skin.
A smirk soon replaces the surprise, never having had any hope of making it out of this without getting a little filthy. His hands find her sides as her arms circle around his neck, thumbs sliding down the rust of her torso with a creamy smoothness, mud whittling away beneath the pressure. He meets the way she joins him, pressing in on her tighter with a hungry sigh as her breasts slip along the plane of his chest, red water pooling shallowly in the design of their touch. With space so absent there's no hiding the way he wants her, his erection cutting a firm line through the clay on her thighs where it seats itself between them.
The want he feels is more than just the heat that crawls low in his gut. It's every moment spent with her that feels fuller, and all the ones after where he can't imagine the absence of her. She makes life feel large, like it's finally opened up and become something worthwhile instead of stooped and boxed in. Every love song makes sense now, and he wonders how the world knew to write so much music about her and what she does to him.
His gaze is liquid at this point, spilling into the sea of her stare like he means to dive right into the bright tide of her eyes. The soft request that barely breaks sends his smile into a knowing tilt. He leans down with all the intensity of the storm they've found themselves caught in, the movement hurried until he finds her, and then she's all the shelter he could ever need from this sudden downpour, and he means to linger there until the rain runs out. His grip tightens against her, palms pressing in while fingers curl, fighting the slide of the mud.
He's relentless in his fulfillment of her ask, driving her to a breathless pant. His hands have given up on holding, choosing to slip up and around her breasts, her back, the slope of her cheeks. It's as though he's exploring the terrain of her body anew, marking each point of interest while taking every ounce of breath she has with tongue and teeth. All the while the clay slowly yields to the continual stream of water and touch.
The unwinding of her hair resumes, but for all the care he attempts to provide, his attention ultimately drifts to the delicate slope of her neck, the line of her shoulders, the swell of her breasts that peek up from behind it all when the shower's fog permits. She is a work of art, and better for it that she's no statue. Although, he rather thinks there should be a few stone and metal dedications to her scattered around. Maybe that'll be a requirement for Floropolis, a bust every five miles or so.
Her hair shifts easy in his loose grip as she turns, threads spilling past his fingers like spun gold, dappled with beads of water that glint with the same quality of diamonds tossed against her crown. His extended arm lingers, less shower than dance floor for a moment as she spins. The swipe of her back against his chest leaves an unexpected sensation, one that elicits a gasp of surprise, gaze falling down to where the first smear of rehydrated clay marks him. It's slick in the wet heat of the shower, sliding off her with ease when touched, but too stubborn to wash away without encouragement due to a faint water-repelling trait. It's that which feels the most strange, making every area it layers against weirdly disconnected from the steady drum of the mock rain upon the rest of his skin.
A smirk soon replaces the surprise, never having had any hope of making it out of this without getting a little filthy. His hands find her sides as her arms circle around his neck, thumbs sliding down the rust of her torso with a creamy smoothness, mud whittling away beneath the pressure. He meets the way she joins him, pressing in on her tighter with a hungry sigh as her breasts slip along the plane of his chest, red water pooling shallowly in the design of their touch. With space so absent there's no hiding the way he wants her, his erection cutting a firm line through the clay on her thighs where it seats itself between them.
The want he feels is more than just the heat that crawls low in his gut. It's every moment spent with her that feels fuller, and all the ones after where he can't imagine the absence of her. She makes life feel large, like it's finally opened up and become something worthwhile instead of stooped and boxed in. Every love song makes sense now, and he wonders how the world knew to write so much music about her and what she does to him.
His gaze is liquid at this point, spilling into the sea of her stare like he means to dive right into the bright tide of her eyes. The soft request that barely breaks sends his smile into a knowing tilt. He leans down with all the intensity of the storm they've found themselves caught in, the movement hurried until he finds her, and then she's all the shelter he could ever need from this sudden downpour, and he means to linger there until the rain runs out. His grip tightens against her, palms pressing in while fingers curl, fighting the slide of the mud.
He's relentless in his fulfillment of her ask, driving her to a breathless pant. His hands have given up on holding, choosing to slip up and around her breasts, her back, the slope of her cheeks. It's as though he's exploring the terrain of her body anew, marking each point of interest while taking every ounce of breath she has with tongue and teeth. All the while the clay slowly yields to the continual stream of water and touch.
Kaisel
Got no reason not to celebrate
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
