[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.]
[He's as unashamed about looking as she is in displaying herself, and though he's been with someone whose body he'd learned by rote, its refreshing to be allowed to look without having to take another person's self-consciousness into account. So he takes the time, one hand tracing delicate circles against the side of her thigh almost lazily.]
Since we're back on introductions, and this must be the last call for last names before things get inappropriate...
[He grins, straddling her legs again but still kneeling up, though he keeps that one hand lowered, slipping between her legs to continue those tiny fingertip circles with a new focus.]
[There's a look to her face when he does that - her eyes half-lid, her pupils grow wide]
Robert Chase.
[She says it like a request for more, her legs spreading slightly with none of the uneasy oddness Saya usually demonstrates, but a fluid sort of grace. Her hands go to his waistband, undoing buttons there]
[He's not always obedient. The request in her voice goes ignored - his touch steady, firm, slow - and quite deliberately given his smile. even his voice is a drawl.]
You were right. I do like the accent.
[Then he relents a little. Switching from fingertips to the quicker pressure of his thumb rubbing over her clit, he leans down over her.]
Saya Santoso?
[It shouldn't be a question. Maybe she'll blame it on his Australian inflection. Either way, it only gives him a moments pause.]
[She says that just as he relents, and she gives a whimper, soft and hard to hear. She doesn't moan, this one, she whimpers.]
Mmmhmm.
[She thinks, maybe, he knows it's an Indonesian name - that's where Scholar's mother was from - and it seems strange on her. But it doesn't matter, because she's ignoring the question otherwise, and tipping her hips up as she finally gets her hands inside of his jeans, fingers fighting for space next to his cock]
[a tough fight for her fingers. His jeans are a close fit and his cock so hard its straining. Those little whimpers are enough for him to give up all ideas of pacing himself. He uses his free hand to get his jeans down to mid thigh and - shit - grab his wallet before it's too late. It's tossed onto the bed next to her.]
Saya Santoso.
[It could be Namibian for all he knows. It's not Wallace.
[There's the laugh again, the smile like the sun, not a hint of calculation to it. She's a good girl, though, she does as she's told, bending her knees up, opening her legs, watching him through slitted eyes as one of her hands goes between her own legs, now, just teasing. She's waiting for him, it's clear.
Waiting and possibly putting on the slightest bit of a show, because she can.]
Are you going to call me by my full name every time, now?
[Now he laughs, though its against a bitten lip, sparing a second just to watch her. Such a fucking tease. When he settles between her legs he makes sure to catch her wrist and suck her fingers clean before pressing his mouth to her, lips and tongue and the gentlest edges of teeth. He wants more than a whimper.]
[That's what you like are the words she swallows against his mouth, and she presses back against him, giving as much as he's taking. Her hands scrabble as soon as he releases them, the one that had been between her legs and his mouth running a wet streak across his back, the other on the nape of his neck, her hips rising up against him.
There's a request there, and it's not a timid, polite one. The sound in the back of her throat is a high-pitched whine, now.]
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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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[He's as unashamed about looking as she is in displaying herself, and though he's been with someone whose body he'd learned by rote, its refreshing to be allowed to look without having to take another person's self-consciousness into account. So he takes the time, one hand tracing delicate circles against the side of her thigh almost lazily.]
Since we're back on introductions, and this must be the last call for last names before things get inappropriate...
[He grins, straddling her legs again but still kneeling up, though he keeps that one hand lowered, slipping between her legs to continue those tiny fingertip circles with a new focus.]
It's Chase.
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Robert Chase.
[She says it like a request for more, her legs spreading slightly with none of the uneasy oddness Saya usually demonstrates, but a fluid sort of grace. Her hands go to his waistband, undoing buttons there]
Santoso.
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You were right. I do like the accent.
[Then he relents a little. Switching from fingertips to the quicker pressure of his thumb rubbing over her clit, he leans down over her.]
Saya Santoso?
[It shouldn't be a question. Maybe she'll blame it on his Australian inflection. Either way, it only gives him a moments pause.]
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[She says that just as he relents, and she gives a whimper, soft and hard to hear. She doesn't moan, this one, she whimpers.]
Mmmhmm.
[She thinks, maybe, he knows it's an Indonesian name - that's where Scholar's mother was from - and it seems strange on her. But it doesn't matter, because she's ignoring the question otherwise, and tipping her hips up as she finally gets her hands inside of his jeans, fingers fighting for space next to his cock]
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Saya Santoso.
[It could be Namibian for all he knows. It's not Wallace.
He gets his hands tucked under her hips.]
Bend your knees up, Saya Santoso.
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Waiting and possibly putting on the slightest bit of a show, because she can.]
Are you going to call me by my full name every time, now?
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[Now he laughs, though its against a bitten lip, sparing a second just to watch her. Such a fucking tease. When he settles between her legs he makes sure to catch her wrist and suck her fingers clean before pressing his mouth to her, lips and tongue and the gentlest edges of teeth. He wants more than a whimper.]
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[That's what you like are the words she swallows against his mouth, and she presses back against him, giving as much as he's taking. Her hands scrabble as soon as he releases them, the one that had been between her legs and his mouth running a wet streak across his back, the other on the nape of his neck, her hips rising up against him.
There's a request there, and it's not a timid, polite one. The sound in the back of her throat is a high-pitched whine, now.]
Should I say please?
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