He's been hard for some time now, and permission has him realizing just how much he wants it. He moves up off one knee and puts her thighs together and presses them back against her ribs. He wants in, and he wants to go deep, and he knows she wants it, and he'll give it to her as quick as ordered: he takes his cock in his fist, pumps himself once and then twice, and guides himself to her entrance and pushes right in and past the initial squeeze.
Whenever he maneuvers her with confidence and intent, she falls in love with him a little more. And when he takes what he wants, which so often aligns with what she wants, she thinks maybe she should marry him.
"Clive," she moans, biting back any nonsense that might want to fall from her lips, "How do you manage to feel so good, each and every time?"
Not a question she expects an answer to as she reaches out to touch whatever part of him she can reach, but at least now she can say she knows: they were made for one another, because no one else makes her melt quite like he does.
"I'll know something's wrong when it no longer is," he says, a little bit of humour and a whole lot pleased. He sets to it, returning to the aggressive pace his fingers had built up to, leaning the bulk of his weight into her, against the backs of her thighs, leaning in so he looms over her. He breathes hard. "Oh, Jill... you're so wet..."
She wonders if people are still watching. She can't look without it being obvious, and she worries that might distract them both. But how could they not watch? She can only imagine how they look, Clive folding her with ease, muscle hard at work as he fucks her.
"A smile from you could have done it," she replies, words short, but tone low and wanting. "You're perfect."
He can feel eyes on them, and it's easy not to care: he has something worth showing off. He presses deep, rocking her back and forth along the bench with every draw in and out. He feels a trail of sweat roll down the back of his neck, between his shoulder blades.
"Then I'll smile at you when you least expect it," he says. "At the market. On a walk. On my way across the hall."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
He's been hard for some time now, and permission has him realizing just how much he wants it. He moves up off one knee and puts her thighs together and presses them back against her ribs. He wants in, and he wants to go deep, and he knows she wants it, and he'll give it to her as quick as ordered: he takes his cock in his fist, pumps himself once and then twice, and guides himself to her entrance and pushes right in and past the initial squeeze.
no subject
"Clive," she moans, biting back any nonsense that might want to fall from her lips, "How do you manage to feel so good, each and every time?"
Not a question she expects an answer to as she reaches out to touch whatever part of him she can reach, but at least now she can say she knows: they were made for one another, because no one else makes her melt quite like he does.
no subject
no subject
"A smile from you could have done it," she replies, words short, but tone low and wanting. "You're perfect."
no subject
"Then I'll smile at you when you least expect it," he says. "At the market. On a walk. On my way across the hall."
no subject
She doesn't tell him that his smiles are sometimes so rare they often are unexpected.
"I'll never survive," she pants, whimpering with the effort it takes not to be absurdly loud.