Isla
Were they doing this, indeed. Isla doesn't know and she really doesn't care, the medic barely noticing that Remi's wrist is even still bleeding as she shifts and swings a leg over his waist to straddle his lap. Her tongue dances against his, fingers plunging into the back of his curls; without hesitation, Isla presses herself close enough to grind against him, lips parting in a gasp at phantom sensations that continue to shudder through her body.
"Remi," she whispers against him, her free hand pressed to his chest. "Should we...?" Stop? Carry on? Go to a room they both know exists and make the most of this? There are enough endings to that sentence that Isla doesn't bother, in the end, to try and finish it. Instead she leans in again for another kiss, relishing the pounding of his heartbeat and the way he shifts and moves beneath her.
"Remi," she whispers against him, her free hand pressed to his chest. "Should we...?" Stop? Carry on? Go to a room they both know exists and make the most of this? There are enough endings to that sentence that Isla doesn't bother, in the end, to try and finish it. Instead she leans in again for another kiss, relishing the pounding of his heartbeat and the way he shifts and moves beneath her.
sooner or later, we all have to wake
and try forgetting everything
and try forgetting everything
