It’s the one time she allows him to stay with her for most of the night, the one time because they end up staying awake until a ghastly hour of the morning, and it throws her off for the rest of the next day but - at the time, she hadn’t minded, not even slightly. So far it’s always been a case of unplanned, stolen instances in obscene locations - it’s too damn cold to keep having fast, breathless sex in the sports shed - but this time there had been less urgency. It had been slower, drawn out and careful. He had peeled her t-shirt away from her body gently, discarding it in much the same manner, and she had watched him intently in the process, seen the great restraint it took him, at first, to do everything in measured steps after all the time they’d spend rushing. It was an exploration, this time, not a sudden thrill, his delighted study of her body, the curves of her pale skin, allowing his lips to pass over her collar bone, kneading her breast as he travelled downwards, settled between her thighs, his mouth so warm and inviting, making her skin tingle and prickle with anticipation.
(When was the last time she’d anticipated someone else’s hands on her?)
It had been an exploration for her too, stopping herself from bossing him about and allowing him to figure things out on his own, playing with the hair on the nape of his neck as he touched her, watching the curves and shapes of his developing muscles, privately appreciating his goofy smile of enjoyment even though she’d roll her eyes on the outside. Scowling at the little laugh she heard him utter when she arched and her breath caught in her throat, but never having time to do anything about it because then he’d continue and all she could do was grip the sheets and try not to moan too loudly.
She had liked pushing him over without warning, lowering herself over him, lacing her fingers with his as she moved her hips at a slow, rhythmic pace, listening to the sounds he made and the movements of his facial features, smiling to herself as he came. She’d allowed him to gather her into his arms and kiss her hard and hold her, in fact, she’d responded just as ardently as he initiated, letting him press her down onto the bed, creating their own bubble of warmth and vitality in the otherwise chilly air of her bedroom.
They had spoken - bickered, whispered, laughed - for hours. She hadn’t even noticed the time go by, lying on her stomach, hugging her pillow while he traced abstract patterns on the small of her back, and the they did it all over again, the cycle of little caresses becoming more, when he would gently roll her onto her back, watch her hair splay out over the pillow as his hand slipped down between her legs and her lips parted into a moan that he caught in yet another kiss. The next morning she would find herself thinking far too much about the night as if it had happened years ago, already wanting it to happen again (sometimes hating herself for it, but most times, not), pushing it far, far away with difficult. She would wonder if it’s as hard for him as it is for her (it is).
It’s only at four o’clock in the morning that she - somewhat regretfully - shoves him from her bed and to the door. He makes a very good radiator, and the heating isn’t what it used to be when she was sixteen, but she pushes him to the door anyway, not without one final, fierce kiss before she shuts the door in his face and he’s left alone in the icy, dark corridor. They both linger either side of the door for a moment, before he leaves and she drifts back to bed, lying down with the sudden, sharp realisation that this boy has done something to addle her mind. It had all begun with some inappropriate sexual desire, and now it’s more than that. She wants his presence and his voice, his personality, as much as she wants him physically.
It’s one of the most frightening sensations she’s ever experienced.
( blackboard | cat + joshua )
(When was the last time she’d anticipated someone else’s hands on her?)
It had been an exploration for her too, stopping herself from bossing him about and allowing him to figure things out on his own, playing with the hair on the nape of his neck as he touched her, watching the curves and shapes of his developing muscles, privately appreciating his goofy smile of enjoyment even though she’d roll her eyes on the outside. Scowling at the little laugh she heard him utter when she arched and her breath caught in her throat, but never having time to do anything about it because then he’d continue and all she could do was grip the sheets and try not to moan too loudly.
She had liked pushing him over without warning, lowering herself over him, lacing her fingers with his as she moved her hips at a slow, rhythmic pace, listening to the sounds he made and the movements of his facial features, smiling to herself as he came. She’d allowed him to gather her into his arms and kiss her hard and hold her, in fact, she’d responded just as ardently as he initiated, letting him press her down onto the bed, creating their own bubble of warmth and vitality in the otherwise chilly air of her bedroom.
They had spoken - bickered, whispered, laughed - for hours. She hadn’t even noticed the time go by, lying on her stomach, hugging her pillow while he traced abstract patterns on the small of her back, and the they did it all over again, the cycle of little caresses becoming more, when he would gently roll her onto her back, watch her hair splay out over the pillow as his hand slipped down between her legs and her lips parted into a moan that he caught in yet another kiss. The next morning she would find herself thinking far too much about the night as if it had happened years ago, already wanting it to happen again (sometimes hating herself for it, but most times, not), pushing it far, far away with difficult. She would wonder if it’s as hard for him as it is for her (it is).
It’s only at four o’clock in the morning that she - somewhat regretfully - shoves him from her bed and to the door. He makes a very good radiator, and the heating isn’t what it used to be when she was sixteen, but she pushes him to the door anyway, not without one final, fierce kiss before she shuts the door in his face and he’s left alone in the icy, dark corridor. They both linger either side of the door for a moment, before he leaves and she drifts back to bed, lying down with the sudden, sharp realisation that this boy has done something to addle her mind. It had all begun with some inappropriate sexual desire, and now it’s more than that. She wants his presence and his voice, his personality, as much as she wants him physically.
It’s one of the most frightening sensations she’s ever experienced.