[The huff she gives is not dissatisfied, just breathless. She's pleased to be kept close, she likes that swelter: half-suffocated, overheating. Her mouth is tingling, piqued and sticky, pliant while she gasps and demanding when she can concentrate well enough to make them. Her hands are similarly coordinated, raking up the backside where she already knows there are scars to follow.]
[There are, but she's left tracing the rough denim of the jeans he didn't think to kick off when she slid out of her dress. He's not thinking about kicking them off now, ether. Maybe he does live to frustrate her, still waiting for the meaning of stay up here to fully sink in. That doesn't mean he's not responsive to the touch, pressing his palms into the small of her back to keep her flush with him.]
[She thinks she's been very obedient to what she was told... But she'll always push, wondering just where he draws the line for 'hassling.' She's not built for contentment, there's always the urge to take more. Tactile as she is, it will frequently come in her hands: tracing out the layering of muscle, the cut of bones. She'd have put her mouth on half of him by now too if she hadn't been distracted from it. It can't be helped.
And in her defense, the button of his stupid jeans is digging in to her stomach.]
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And in her defense, the button of his stupid jeans is digging in to her stomach.]