Do you have conversations that don't descend into the ridiculous? [It's a trait he's clearly enjoying.] Grey goose and lack of interruption from her husband might have been nice.
[She smiles into the kiss, her mouth tasting a bit like VB, and she moves forward a bit so she's closer to him, a hand going into his hair and curling there]
[When his hands become involved it's to curl at her hip, encouraging he to turn in a little, mirror his movements. It could be tragic, couldn't it, a girl who doesn't exist. In some ways it's perfect.]
[She turns, she picks up the cues with a level of empathy that the other version of this woman doesn't have. That Saya picks up cues from practice, from knowledge of what men like.
There is something fresher, here, something less measured. She puts her hand down his neck, to his shoulders]
[It's her eyes that mark the most difference to him, and he's always rubbished the idea of any soul having windows. When he pulls back, each time he does, it's to catch her eye again.]
Otherwise we'll have to pin it on the aphrodisiac qualities of VB. And that's going to skew my whole scientific perspective.
[Even he has to give her a look at that revelation. As much as he can from this angle.]
...Who needs medical reason. [The words are soft growl at the back of his throat, and before they become something more embarrassing (like a whimper), he turns his head. Just enough to kiss the base of her throat where she's leaning in to him.] Want to open up a homeopathic surf shop with me? We can sell... biodynamic... mm.
[Glorious abs of gold? Chase continues to approach from the opposite angle, slipping her top off one shoulder, nuzzling down to catch the upper edge of her bra between his teeth.
So this is muffled, but nevermind. He's pulling her hips against his, shifting further back onto the bed.]
[The job's already half done, and the shirt stays with her as he sits back up, shrugging out of it easily. But, like for like, he slides his hands up over her ribcage, urging the fabric he's probably already stretched a little upwards.]
[She reaches to help once his shirt is off, yanking her t-shirt over her head (god only knows where she found it) and tosses it away, then leans up to give him another kiss on the mouth, the neck, the collarbone, while she moves his hands to undo her bra in the back.]
[Chase, whose job involves delicate work at difficult angles, learned the finer points of a bra clasp thankfully easily, long ago. It took longer to learn that the things people say in films God, you're beautiful don't translate as well in reality, and perhaps the urge for cliche is caught in the look he gives her, measuring the span of his palms around the curve of her breasts, submitting to her kisses.
(He's not going to say it's been a long time, either. He can play is cooler than that, even if the quickness of his breath can't quite toe the line.)]
[She's laughing, still - not a mocking laugh, not a snide laugh, but a pleased laugh, something a bit joyous, because that is who she is: someone who laughs at this act, her hands moving across the planes of his stomach and then her own, one hand dipping into the front of her jeans, resting there for a moment, just to tease.
He doesn't have to tell her she's beautiful, because she doesn't need to hear it. Instead she puts her free hand on his face, traces the planes of his cheekbones, dips her fingertips into his hairline]
[It's something infectious, that joy. It leaves him smiling too, nipping at her fingertips when they brush close enough, closing his eyes in a quieter pleasure when her fingers card through his hair. And he's slow to explore her, hands and mouth, hands and elbows above her. It's not the act he's forgotten but the nuances of another woman's body have become easy habit and it's a small fascination to find where she reacts and doesn't. He's attentive in looking for the differences, each one quelling slightly the guilt that rises when she gasps in an echo of Cameron's sensitivities.
It doesn't happen too often. They're different women, and he's patient but eager, twining his fingers with hers under the waistband of her jeans and testing how far the denim will stretch around his wrist. Just far enough for him to slip a finger against her and drag the wet trail back up across her stomach - something for him to chase with his tongue when he moves down the bed, lifting her hips, working at buttons, tugging.]
[She's perfectly willing to let him take point on this: she doesn't have as much experience as he does, simply by virtue of age, in this form. Her hands, though, once they're both free, go to help tug jeans down, jeans that aren't skintight or stylish.
She's nudging her shoes off, one at a time, and the fall to the floor with dull thuds, one after another. She kind of likes being naked first, if she admits it. She kind of likes to be looked at, a streak of narcissism that is inherent to her nature.
When her pants are mostly down she moves herself back, still under him, but so he can take a moment, so she can take a moment.]
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What would you have wanted at your loss of virginity tea?
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[She laughs into her beer and takes another drink]
Do you only go for married women?
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Well, Doctor Robert, I would tell you, but I'm afraid you would turn me down.
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Lucky someone didn't ask your type three days ago. There wouldn't even have been a chance.
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And leans in. And kisses her.]
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Still going to respect me tomorrow?
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There is something fresher, here, something less measured. She puts her hand down his neck, to his shoulders]
I think I can manage that.
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Otherwise we'll have to pin it on the aphrodisiac qualities of VB. And that's going to skew my whole scientific perspective.
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If that were the case every kid in Australia would be shagging like mad.
[And then she thinks about that statement]
...well, it would make certain things make a load of sense.
[But she's crawling into his lap, her mouth on his ear]
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...Who needs medical reason. [The words are soft growl at the back of his throat, and before they become something more embarrassing (like a whimper), he turns his head. Just enough to kiss the base of her throat where she's leaning in to him.] Want to open up a homeopathic surf shop with me? We can sell... biodynamic... mm.
[And lower.]
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[She's tipping her head, then, to let him kiss her, her hands moving down his stomach and to the hem of his shirt]
Mmhmm, I'll open whatever you like.
[She's pushing his shirt up, her fingers against his stomach, tracing the muscles there.]
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So this is muffled, but nevermind. He's pulling her hips against his, shifting further back onto the bed.]
Was that a sexy pun?
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Well, maybe.
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Understand, I'm only going to appreciate comedy up to a certain point.
[He looks up, grins, and lifts her around his waist just long enough to turn both of them over, spreading her on her back across the bed.]
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No, no more bad puns, I promise.
[She tumbles back, and her fingers keep tugging - she wants that shirt off]
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(He's not going to say it's been a long time, either. He can play is cooler than that, even if the quickness of his breath can't quite toe the line.)]
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He doesn't have to tell her she's beautiful, because she doesn't need to hear it. Instead she puts her free hand on his face, traces the planes of his cheekbones, dips her fingertips into his hairline]
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It doesn't happen too often. They're different women, and he's patient but eager, twining his fingers with hers under the waistband of her jeans and testing how far the denim will stretch around his wrist. Just far enough for him to slip a finger against her and drag the wet trail back up across her stomach - something for him to chase with his tongue when he moves down the bed, lifting her hips, working at buttons, tugging.]
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She's nudging her shoes off, one at a time, and the fall to the floor with dull thuds, one after another. She kind of likes being naked first, if she admits it. She kind of likes to be looked at, a streak of narcissism that is inherent to her nature.
When her pants are mostly down she moves herself back, still under him, but so he can take a moment, so she can take a moment.]
Hi.
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