[She is only too glad he doesn't inquire further, occupying himself with taking off even more clothing, just as she is shortly busied with the sensation of his fingers slipping through sleek blonde sections of her hair. Yet eventually, one of them must pull back for breath, and she shies away first, lashes fluttering to see him standing in just an undershirt. His shoulders are broader than she thought, seeing the lean muscle beneath the sleeves of his suit, and his complexion is a shade mildly darker than hers, and—
Her arms release him, one curious hand reaching out to trace the faint white flesh, a different color than new skin, scars of some wound healed over, a stark and unpleasant sight. She looks up to him, concern and pity written in her gaze. Perhaps he thinks her meddling, undeserving to comment on his private past, but she can't help the fierce rush of sympathy which threatens to have tears in her eyes.]
Does it hurt terribly?
[She regrets asking immediately, not wanting to be seen as a busybody or a prying gossip, guilt weighing heavily in her gaze, as if the sins of the man who inflicted those wounds were hers. This is meant to be a joyous occasion, and she wills the burning of tears away, the bed creaking beneath her as she lies back once again. With her in just her skirt, her dress halfway undone, and him in little more than his trousers, there is absolutely no mistaking what they have set out to do—no more chances for second thoughts, for excuses to leave, for doubts of any kind.
Her hands lie at her sides, taking fistfuls of the bedspread each, hoping to still their anxious quiver. What is there to say now, other than something trite, the sort of thing found in a romance novel that costs a penny? There is no use in asking him to be slow, to be gentle, because it's not as if tonight is her first. So she opts for quiet, with only her ragged, high breathing in the silence.]
no subject
Her arms release him, one curious hand reaching out to trace the faint white flesh, a different color than new skin, scars of some wound healed over, a stark and unpleasant sight. She looks up to him, concern and pity written in her gaze. Perhaps he thinks her meddling, undeserving to comment on his private past, but she can't help the fierce rush of sympathy which threatens to have tears in her eyes.]
Does it hurt terribly?
[She regrets asking immediately, not wanting to be seen as a busybody or a prying gossip, guilt weighing heavily in her gaze, as if the sins of the man who inflicted those wounds were hers. This is meant to be a joyous occasion, and she wills the burning of tears away, the bed creaking beneath her as she lies back once again. With her in just her skirt, her dress halfway undone, and him in little more than his trousers, there is absolutely no mistaking what they have set out to do—no more chances for second thoughts, for excuses to leave, for doubts of any kind.
Her hands lie at her sides, taking fistfuls of the bedspread each, hoping to still their anxious quiver. What is there to say now, other than something trite, the sort of thing found in a romance novel that costs a penny? There is no use in asking him to be slow, to be gentle, because it's not as if tonight is her first. So she opts for quiet, with only her ragged, high breathing in the silence.]