Let's make tonight the weekend, I don't wanna wait
When she looks at him like this, it's a wonder he once had any self-control at all around her. It's deteriorated beneath every kiss, that first one breaking a seal on happiness that's only continued to rise with every moment alongside her. Even now, his restraint feels flimsy at best, and there's no denying the distracted tilt of his gaze that lingers over curves he's just begun to appreciate. He's nearly finished though, and he'd rather make good on her pampering here so there'd be no reason to wait later. With considerable effort, he gets back on task.
Letting her keep her fitted shoe and snorting dismissively over what to say (or not say) to her fathers is all easy enough to survive. The drop in her tone and the single barrier of wet nails that she sets down between them though, that's the death of his thinning resolve. She meets the certainty of his gaze with her own, the intensity of which is a live wire that strikes him in his core. "Wet nails is the only issue, is it?" His voice is low, the curiosity there dangerous with intent as he pointedly twists the bottle of polish shut.
While she starts to shuffle cards for them, so to speak, he leans in and slides his hand along the underside of hers, lifting her higher as he dips. Carefully, he blows across the freshly painted nails, lips puckered to direct the exhale into something meaningful, the force of which is slow and steady to avoid stirring ripples in the paint. All the while, he doesn't lose the aqua of her eyes, holding them firm with his own promise as he works to dry her. A pause comes only when he has to inhale again through his nose, the moment a brief respite before his directed breath resumes its efforts, rolling in an even, rhythmic wash across each finger, down and back.
With his free hand, he reaches up and yanks the seaweed layers off her chest, ripping through the oceanic lace and flinging it aside.
Letting her keep her fitted shoe and snorting dismissively over what to say (or not say) to her fathers is all easy enough to survive. The drop in her tone and the single barrier of wet nails that she sets down between them though, that's the death of his thinning resolve. She meets the certainty of his gaze with her own, the intensity of which is a live wire that strikes him in his core. "Wet nails is the only issue, is it?" His voice is low, the curiosity there dangerous with intent as he pointedly twists the bottle of polish shut.
While she starts to shuffle cards for them, so to speak, he leans in and slides his hand along the underside of hers, lifting her higher as he dips. Carefully, he blows across the freshly painted nails, lips puckered to direct the exhale into something meaningful, the force of which is slow and steady to avoid stirring ripples in the paint. All the while, he doesn't lose the aqua of her eyes, holding them firm with his own promise as he works to dry her. A pause comes only when he has to inhale again through his nose, the moment a brief respite before his directed breath resumes its efforts, rolling in an even, rhythmic wash across each finger, down and back.
With his free hand, he reaches up and yanks the seaweed layers off her chest, ripping through the oceanic lace and flinging it aside.
Kaisel
Got no reason not to celebrate
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
