[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.]
[God he loves that, the unwillingness to lie back and take it, that she involves herself as much as he does, and he's almost unwilling to pull back long enough to nod to the side.]
My wallet.
[Face and hands sticky, he kicks off his shoes, his half-shed jeans, settling over her.]
It's not that she doesn't practice it (because she does) but because it's delaying what she wants at this moment, but she reaches for his wallet and opens it. To her credit, she doesn't look for photos or IDs or other things that a man might carry in his wallet - instead she finds the packet of foil and takes it out, pushing the wallet way after.
She opens it, orients the condom in her fingers and strokes it over his erection, fingers brushing it down. When it's on she leans back up against him, her face in his neck, and nips the skin there. It's not enough to leave a mark but enough to be felt, tugging along his collarline.
From where she is her voice is muffled, a bit]
You don't need me to ask you, do you? I will, if you want.
[The hint of desperation in her voice is pretty clear, though]
[He's just glad the thing's still there. There's no secondary stock in his dresser, so any repeat performance is going to involve choices being made. Ready to say she doesn't have to ask for anything, he hesitates, gaze flicking down to the top of her head, hair mussed against his shoulder, and wonders if its something she likes.
Not incomprehensible (it's something he likes) for anyone but her.
He holds her shoulders, ducking his head to kiss her and nudge her focus upward. Tests the theory, although there's something too fond - too warm in the way he looks at her for the wording to hold much weight.]
I want you to show me how you want it. Then I want you to ask.
[She considers that for a second, because interpretations can vary (not much, but enough for her to think it over) before she wraps her legs around his waist and tugs their hips together, flush, so that his cock rubs against her skin, her mouth against his again, her hands moving south to his ass.]
Come on, Robert Chase, I want you to fuck me.
[There's a slight keen in her voice now, one that is more likely to go low than it is to go high. She lets go of him then to move back, giving them space so he can see her, and her hands move around his hips, ghost along his erection again]
If she was planning any more pleases he silences them as well as the need, mouth rough and urgent against hers, the capacity for conversation getting irretrievably lost somewhere between positioning himself and pushing into her. After all the waiting there's no gentle start or slow build, just fuck and god gasped against her skin as he presses her down.
[Her legs immediately move to help him go deeper, faster at the same time that her mouth responds to his. There's something that's pure instinct, something that's animal about this, her fingers in his hair as she move her mouth back to his, to his eyes, his cheekbones, her teeth against his earlobes and the skin of his neck.
Whatever sounds she's making now aren't whimpers anymore, they're thick and coming from her chest.]
[Ordinarily he'd say that she's the least animal of any of them, but he's not making imaginary comparisons now. He's not thinking much, and he'd hold on to this white noise in his head if he could.
He whimpers, at her teeth, hips bucking hard enough against her that his hand loses purchase on the sheets and he drops to his elbow, startled for the second it takes to laugh and kiss her. While he's there, perhaps he can take her hands and draw them upwards, force himself to eke this out at least a little, slowing to look down at her. The sweat between her breasts is sea-salt against his tongue.]
[She's laughing now, too, her eyes half-lidded, and she's clearly enjoying herself, her hips meeting his in a syncopated rhythm, one of her hands taking his to the space where their bodies meet, right against her clit.
She bites again, then, lightly and then a little harder. She can tell he likes it from his reactions, but she doesn't want to take it too far, either]
[It's just right, for this encounter. Not close to as much as he can take - she'd have no need to worry - but, for this, just a new edge of sensation already building to a peak. His thumb rolls against her clit, slick and firm, and he can't stay slow any longer.]
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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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My wallet.
[Face and hands sticky, he kicks off his shoes, his half-shed jeans, settling over her.]
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It's not that she doesn't practice it (because she does) but because it's delaying what she wants at this moment, but she reaches for his wallet and opens it. To her credit, she doesn't look for photos or IDs or other things that a man might carry in his wallet - instead she finds the packet of foil and takes it out, pushing the wallet way after.
She opens it, orients the condom in her fingers and strokes it over his erection, fingers brushing it down. When it's on she leans back up against him, her face in his neck, and nips the skin there. It's not enough to leave a mark but enough to be felt, tugging along his collarline.
From where she is her voice is muffled, a bit]
You don't need me to ask you, do you? I will, if you want.
[The hint of desperation in her voice is pretty clear, though]
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Not incomprehensible (it's something he likes) for anyone but her.
He holds her shoulders, ducking his head to kiss her and nudge her focus upward. Tests the theory, although there's something too fond - too warm in the way he looks at her for the wording to hold much weight.]
I want you to show me how you want it. Then I want you to ask.
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Come on, Robert Chase, I want you to fuck me.
[There's a slight keen in her voice now, one that is more likely to go low than it is to go high. She lets go of him then to move back, giving them space so he can see her, and her hands move around his hips, ghost along his erection again]
Please?
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If she was planning any more pleases he silences them as well as the need, mouth rough and urgent against hers, the capacity for conversation getting irretrievably lost somewhere between positioning himself and pushing into her. After all the waiting there's no gentle start or slow build, just fuck and god gasped against her skin as he presses her down.
Quick, sharp breaths, and a smile.]
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Whatever sounds she's making now aren't whimpers anymore, they're thick and coming from her chest.]
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He whimpers, at her teeth, hips bucking hard enough against her that his hand loses purchase on the sheets and he drops to his elbow, startled for the second it takes to laugh and kiss her. While he's there, perhaps he can take her hands and draw them upwards, force himself to eke this out at least a little, slowing to look down at her. The sweat between her breasts is sea-salt against his tongue.]
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She bites again, then, lightly and then a little harder. She can tell he likes it from his reactions, but she doesn't want to take it too far, either]
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Roll with me.
[She's laughing again, softly, smiling against his skin, her arms around him. It's a surfing term, to get on the same board, on the same wave.]
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