[A tiny smile, relieved, embarrassed, and perhaps a touch exhausted, lights up her face when he comforts her, answering her absurd little question with a kiss like a prince from a fairy tale. Of course, he isn't really—but with the air of brooding, stoic yet strangely sweet, mystery that he carries about him, she can let her imagination conjure up wild stories about who he is.
She nods, not trusting herself to speak, her honeyed voice petering off into an uneven, hitching sigh, answering him in spite of her efforts to muffle her words. She is almost convinced she is half-way to ecstasy when he gives another shallow motion of his hips, making her soft and pliant in his arms. From how he looks, in this moment—handsome and fresh-faced, the expression of teasing delight curling at the corner of his mouth, the patterns of light and shadow in the room casting him in darkness—she is overcome by affection for him, adoration welling up in her heart.
She releases one hand from its tight grasp on the sheets, raising it to lay over his hand against the white curve of her cheek. She would like it, very much, if he were to hold her hand of his own accord, or some other small romantic gesture, but she lacks the innate confidence to ask. He might not even be in as romantic as a mood as she, rather, he seems to be drunk on lust—the low echo of his groan is like a spark of heat, or the first embers of a flame, red blooming in her cheeks at the pure, animal sound of it.]
no subject
She nods, not trusting herself to speak, her honeyed voice petering off into an uneven, hitching sigh, answering him in spite of her efforts to muffle her words. She is almost convinced she is half-way to ecstasy when he gives another shallow motion of his hips, making her soft and pliant in his arms. From how he looks, in this moment—handsome and fresh-faced, the expression of teasing delight curling at the corner of his mouth, the patterns of light and shadow in the room casting him in darkness—she is overcome by affection for him, adoration welling up in her heart.
She releases one hand from its tight grasp on the sheets, raising it to lay over his hand against the white curve of her cheek. She would like it, very much, if he were to hold her hand of his own accord, or some other small romantic gesture, but she lacks the innate confidence to ask. He might not even be in as romantic as a mood as she, rather, he seems to be drunk on lust—the low echo of his groan is like a spark of heat, or the first embers of a flame, red blooming in her cheeks at the pure, animal sound of it.]