Kaisel
Heaven help me, the devil wears lace and she can't be tamed
The skin he's exposed barely feels like it. The air here hangs with a heavy heat that wraps around him like its own layer of cloth. If not for the tension of his waistband tugging back on his thumb, or the accordion fold of his shirt across half his hand, he might have forgotten he's tried to remove any clothing at all. That, and the tells from his wife that she is watching, and dare he say, it is working.
She doesn't return his answer in a way that sounds like victory, coming in a bit too high, too sharp, but he can't mistake it for anything else when she begins to descend. It's not with reluctance, like he imagines the crumbling of her security would mean, but with performance. She drops with all the stage presence of a main character's demise, every motion drawn out to pull the audience in, and consider him perched on the edge of his seat now.
His breath breaks from behind his teeth, rough and needy, held without realizing it. His chin tips down with her, the steady eye contact bordering that unknown smile something which snares his full attention. Shadows extend her lashes, while firelight glints off the corner of her perfectly pursed and plump lips, the promise of them accentuated with the glinting upturn. Now his breath seizes back in his chest, stuttering to move around the swell of arousal that grabs hold of every process and plummets south. It's clear then, this is not a show of her demise, but his.
A wide, toothy smile of success pleats his cheeks as he leans towards her, body breaking over the thin barrier of hard rock and plush landscape. He transfers the hold of his shirt to his mouth, a bit of fabric steering him to her to free up both hands for sliding his pants further down, happy to take the offered prize of her tongue. It's then that her wickedness turns itself upon him, as masterful as a cat setting a trap with its belly, only to later reveal its claws. Wrong[ lands like a stone in a glass house, and Kaisel sputters as he shatters.
His mouth slackens, shirt tumbling free, and he pulls both thumbs away with an elastic snap. "W H A T!" he demands, that rush still rolling through him needing some direction now. He stares down at her for a moment, nostrils flaring with the huff of breath he takes before he turns away to march down the entrance of the club in a repeating course of grumbling thought. Flirting with the bouncer is much easier when she doesn't flirt back.
"I've given you TWO great passwords already," he accuses, holding up two fingers. "Starting to think you picked something absolutely terrible, or just no password at all!" He'd not put it past her to have devised some insane mixture of letters and numbers and symbols, or a trick baked into this that he's failed to see.
All pretense of nonchalance has been lost, and he's half a mind to just storm her pillow castle now and take it by force. He even throws a calculating stare over his shoulder, gauging offensive possibilities for the siege. A true tactician wouldn't waste effort unnecessarily though, and he's got one chance left to do this without violence.
Pacing back and forth, bowed in very serious decision making, sweat begins to mark its own trail down his shoulders. He rolls them, the back of his hand swiping away the glimmer starting down his temples. Shortly thereafter he just pulls his shirt entirely off, using it like mop for this heat and something to work his ideas into as he moves, hands wadding it up like a stress ball. He thumbs over new possibilities. Rupert, Doubletake, Assborn, Sugar Tide, shooting stars, hot ketchup. Memories reduced into phrases and moments to words. He pauses suddenly then, turning towards her with a soldierly aboutface. "It's not... runningiscool1!, is it?" he asks, his tone unimpressed as he offers it up.
She doesn't return his answer in a way that sounds like victory, coming in a bit too high, too sharp, but he can't mistake it for anything else when she begins to descend. It's not with reluctance, like he imagines the crumbling of her security would mean, but with performance. She drops with all the stage presence of a main character's demise, every motion drawn out to pull the audience in, and consider him perched on the edge of his seat now.
His breath breaks from behind his teeth, rough and needy, held without realizing it. His chin tips down with her, the steady eye contact bordering that unknown smile something which snares his full attention. Shadows extend her lashes, while firelight glints off the corner of her perfectly pursed and plump lips, the promise of them accentuated with the glinting upturn. Now his breath seizes back in his chest, stuttering to move around the swell of arousal that grabs hold of every process and plummets south. It's clear then, this is not a show of her demise, but his.
A wide, toothy smile of success pleats his cheeks as he leans towards her, body breaking over the thin barrier of hard rock and plush landscape. He transfers the hold of his shirt to his mouth, a bit of fabric steering him to her to free up both hands for sliding his pants further down, happy to take the offered prize of her tongue. It's then that her wickedness turns itself upon him, as masterful as a cat setting a trap with its belly, only to later reveal its claws. Wrong[ lands like a stone in a glass house, and Kaisel sputters as he shatters.
His mouth slackens, shirt tumbling free, and he pulls both thumbs away with an elastic snap. "W H A T!" he demands, that rush still rolling through him needing some direction now. He stares down at her for a moment, nostrils flaring with the huff of breath he takes before he turns away to march down the entrance of the club in a repeating course of grumbling thought. Flirting with the bouncer is much easier when she doesn't flirt back.
"I've given you TWO great passwords already," he accuses, holding up two fingers. "Starting to think you picked something absolutely terrible, or just no password at all!" He'd not put it past her to have devised some insane mixture of letters and numbers and symbols, or a trick baked into this that he's failed to see.
All pretense of nonchalance has been lost, and he's half a mind to just storm her pillow castle now and take it by force. He even throws a calculating stare over his shoulder, gauging offensive possibilities for the siege. A true tactician wouldn't waste effort unnecessarily though, and he's got one chance left to do this without violence.
Pacing back and forth, bowed in very serious decision making, sweat begins to mark its own trail down his shoulders. He rolls them, the back of his hand swiping away the glimmer starting down his temples. Shortly thereafter he just pulls his shirt entirely off, using it like mop for this heat and something to work his ideas into as he moves, hands wadding it up like a stress ball. He thumbs over new possibilities. Rupert, Doubletake, Assborn, Sugar Tide, shooting stars, hot ketchup. Memories reduced into phrases and moments to words. He pauses suddenly then, turning towards her with a soldierly aboutface. "It's not... runningiscool1!, is it?" he asks, his tone unimpressed as he offers it up.
Let me see the good girl you wanted to be. All of my praise, only from me.
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
