[She pulls her knees in under her, sitting with her legs splayed to either side of the cookie tray behind her. He's very accommodating, that doctor, and she lets go of his shirt-front to loop an arm around her shoulders.]
I have been looking for this thread for so long - not realising this post had a page 2...
[An aptitude for accommodation is one thing Chase would count as a talent (sometimes a curse), but accommodating the cookie plate is a step too far. It's going to have to get knocked to make enough room for him to climb on the table and push her back.]
[She'd be distressed about the cookies, if they had any of her attention. Instead she's being re-positioned, boots knocking against the wooden table top.
It's still strange, not to be met with rejection. A little disappointing, maybe, to those still-sick corners of her mind that reveled in such vindications. They're easy not to listen to as the rest of her thoughts focus in on him, honed sharp and bright. It's an intentness he's seen before in her pretty sixteen-year-old face. She lights up in the thrall of an obsession and she's very much wanted tap into that thrill for a very long time now. For years and years and years.]
[He remembers the light in her, yes, but at sixteen she was lit with something wicked and sharp. Not that he's... necessarily going to object to variations on the theme just now.
The mistletoe is still curling across the paintwork, trailing down the light fitting, shedding little green leaves as it catches itself up. But this isn't curse induced. There's nothing forced in his settling over her, kissing her and then catching a moment, startled, as the plate finally rolls off the edge of the table, and clatters, and a puppy's scratchy claws skitter across the kitchen floor to retrieve his share of cookies.
Chase grins, his hand caught across her collarbone, fingertips just edging under cloth.]
[If she were any kind of responsible pet-owner, she would also be concerned about Peanut eating those cookies. She isn't, and she most definitely isn't. Instead, the heel of one boot hooks against his leg so she can simply leverage him closer.]
Stop talking.
[Her hand is heavy, palm open and fingers splayed, on the back of his neck. It would probably be best to just do as she says.]
[Dogs can handle sugar cookies. Chase is 99 percent sure of this and 100 percent sure that it's not the immediate priority. Especially when her heel catches the back of his thigh and he presses down in involuntary response. He's happy to quiet himself against her mouth.]
[He can make a few noises, if he likes. Just nothing coherent. A mutter or two might even be expected if she's worked her way under his shirt to dig her nails into the small of his back, and she'll be there to swallow them up.]
[The catch of nails demands more than a mutter. He hisses, teeth tight, hips pinning her against the woodgrain. his hands are working over her outfit, looking for fastenings. He's adept at working blind.]
[She's a difficult one to pin down, strong and willful, the fact that she remains on her back is by choice and not pressure. Though there isn't a lack of pressure, back flexed to curve up into him, hips lifted to let loose fabric pull away from her. She'll let go of him long enough to pull the shirt over head, not much longer though.]
[Oh, he knows she could flip their positions if she wanted - he wouldn't complain. But while he's got this vantage point he's going to use it, and not just to press her into the table. His hands thank her for the revelation of exposed skin by exploring it. His mouth, wet from hers, hot in pursuit. Clothes seems like a secondary consideration: he leaves the shirt she's rucked up over his shoulders hanging open, but catches one of her hands (risking the claws) to bring around to his belt.]
[Her knees are tight on his hips, a brace while she gives the leather band two sharp jerks to loosen its catch. The buckle jingles when the line goes slack, clattering against itself when she lets it go. Her thumb finds his navel before the catch of his pants, running the back of her knuckles along his stomach, mussing body-hair that's soft under her touch. It's a gentleness that will find counterpoint in her palm making a cup for his balls, fingers closing tightly around around the base him through the fabric.]
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I have been looking for this thread for so long - not realising this post had a page 2...
he's a very popular young man
It's still strange, not to be met with rejection. A little disappointing, maybe, to those still-sick corners of her mind that reveled in such vindications. They're easy not to listen to as the rest of her thoughts focus in on him, honed sharp and bright. It's an intentness he's seen before in her pretty sixteen-year-old face. She lights up in the thrall of an obsession and she's very much wanted tap into that thrill for a very long time now. For years and years and years.]
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The mistletoe is still curling across the paintwork, trailing down the light fitting, shedding little green leaves as it catches itself up. But this isn't curse induced. There's nothing forced in his settling over her, kissing her and then catching a moment, startled, as the plate finally rolls off the edge of the table, and clatters, and a puppy's scratchy claws skitter across the kitchen floor to retrieve his share of cookies.
Chase grins, his hand caught across her collarbone, fingertips just edging under cloth.]
Oops. Don't bite my head off.
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Stop talking.
[Her hand is heavy, palm open and fingers splayed, on the back of his neck. It would probably be best to just do as she says.]
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