[She averts her gaze when she sees him beginning to unfasten the row of buttons at the front his jacket, as if he is the one made bashful by nudity, not her. Even without uttering a word, her deepening blush betrays the faint traces of anxiety, terribly conscious of how his attentive gaze takes in her prone figure, wondering if he may be comparing her to previous lovers, if he may be thinking her too childlike of a girl, from how she fumbles and flusters.
But for the next moment, her worry, along with everything else, vanishes from her mind when his heated kisses begin trailing lower across unmarked skin, the soft arc of her exposed throat, the underside of her face. The brief squeeze of his hand is a small comfort, and she clutches at him with tangible desperation, as if seeking out some sense of stability, as if it is the last vestige of control she can have over her reactions. Her lips press together to muffle herself, to mild success, murmuring nonsense and the beginnings of his name.
In the sweltering summer night, she could trick herself into believing her artificial fever is induced from alcohol, or the thick air, or the constricting fabric of her dress. But it's futile to pretend the cloying heat, the light sweat gathering in the hollow of her throat, is caused by anything but the impassioned way he presses himself against her. If she is sufferingly hot, in her dress of airy silk, then he must be feeling unbearable. She could—she could, at least for his sake—
She leaves the top of her dress untouched, opting to reach low for the long skirt, its pearl-embroidered hem reaching down to her ankles, tangled up in her heels. With faltering fingers, the gold buckle of her shoes are undone, and afterwards—she manages the courage to raise her skirt just slightly past the knees, revealing Victorian-styled stockings, the lily-white skin of her thighs peeking through the thin, sheer material. This would please him, wouldn't it? It must, because otherwise, she feels as if she could collapse from the utter scandal of it all.]
no subject
But for the next moment, her worry, along with everything else, vanishes from her mind when his heated kisses begin trailing lower across unmarked skin, the soft arc of her exposed throat, the underside of her face. The brief squeeze of his hand is a small comfort, and she clutches at him with tangible desperation, as if seeking out some sense of stability, as if it is the last vestige of control she can have over her reactions. Her lips press together to muffle herself, to mild success, murmuring nonsense and the beginnings of his name.
In the sweltering summer night, she could trick herself into believing her artificial fever is induced from alcohol, or the thick air, or the constricting fabric of her dress. But it's futile to pretend the cloying heat, the light sweat gathering in the hollow of her throat, is caused by anything but the impassioned way he presses himself against her. If she is sufferingly hot, in her dress of airy silk, then he must be feeling unbearable. She could—she could, at least for his sake—
She leaves the top of her dress untouched, opting to reach low for the long skirt, its pearl-embroidered hem reaching down to her ankles, tangled up in her heels. With faltering fingers, the gold buckle of her shoes are undone, and afterwards—she manages the courage to raise her skirt just slightly past the knees, revealing Victorian-styled stockings, the lily-white skin of her thighs peeking through the thin, sheer material. This would please him, wouldn't it? It must, because otherwise, she feels as if she could collapse from the utter scandal of it all.]