Amalia
stop thinking so much
Her hands stay on him as he descends, snaking, traveling up his form as he comes into the water. Fingers caress his chest, his neck, inching and easing to his face, his cheeks, until his face is in her hands, his forehead pressed to hers. "Mmm," she murmurs in reply, smiling, laughing along with him, her dark eyes closed in triumph and delight as their voices fill the space. "My pleasure." She tilts her head into his kisses, happy for the appreciation, the warmth of his affection, for having succeeded in bringing him low. A whimper leaves her as he continues his ministrations, a little surprised, a little pleased; leaning back to the edge of the tub she lets the water rise up her body, submerging her waist, her sternum, so only her breasts and shoulders are exposed.
She does not expect him to follow, to continue, his hands easing down the lines of her form. "You don't - mm - don't have to-" she murmurs, though the arc of her spine and the press of her hips tell a different story. Almost unconsciously she raises her knee, her leg leaving the bath to rise over his back, a clear invitation for him to go on. Fingers tangle in his hair; she tries to bring him closer, to kiss him, to run her lips on the shell of his ear. "But if you want to, I certainly won't say no."
you're breaking your own heart
