[It's still not what she wants, still not what she wishes he could say, but it's the best he can give her. And in these circumstances—if he were any other man, she almost knows instinctively—no other suitor would have immediately put an end to his advances when she refused. Another man could have simply not bothered at all to listen to her confusion, assuming she was playing at being coy. Another man would not have listened to her maddeningly contradictory words, and he positively would not have answered her ridiculous, romantic notions with as much kindness as he had. Although he has no reason to—although he could have just taken his pleasure before hers—is he not doing his best to comfort her, as a lover should?
This kiss is slower, sweeter, the sort of kiss which is the stuff of dreams, fairy tales and fiction. It is the first one they have exchanged tonight which is not a frantic race for completion or a tangle of confusion passion, tender and careful. One she can, at long last, relax into, the tension in her delicate frame gradually being undone. His hand curled around her waist supports her, it doesn't trap her or keep her caged within his reach, and with his lips on hers, being held in his arms, it feels like there is more to be attained tonight than just plain intercourse.
It feels like they can make love—even fall in love.
Tentatively, her hands fall away from where they are clasped, reaching blindly out to smooth along the lapels of his suit, dark pinstripes which appear black in the long shadows of the room. From there, they settle around his shoulders, and there is no unspoken tension or efforts to restrain himself in his frame, at least that she can feel. Is this good for him too? Is this enough for him, at least for this moment? Or does he want more than the chaste pace of kissing, the elaborate coaxing, the almost virginal shyness she possesses?]
no subject
This kiss is slower, sweeter, the sort of kiss which is the stuff of dreams, fairy tales and fiction. It is the first one they have exchanged tonight which is not a frantic race for completion or a tangle of confusion passion, tender and careful. One she can, at long last, relax into, the tension in her delicate frame gradually being undone. His hand curled around her waist supports her, it doesn't trap her or keep her caged within his reach, and with his lips on hers, being held in his arms, it feels like there is more to be attained tonight than just plain intercourse.
It feels like they can make love—even fall in love.
Tentatively, her hands fall away from where they are clasped, reaching blindly out to smooth along the lapels of his suit, dark pinstripes which appear black in the long shadows of the room. From there, they settle around his shoulders, and there is no unspoken tension or efforts to restrain himself in his frame, at least that she can feel. Is this good for him too? Is this enough for him, at least for this moment? Or does he want more than the chaste pace of kissing, the elaborate coaxing, the almost virginal shyness she possesses?]