[His breath catches in his throat, and he leans into the touch a little; it takes him a long few moments, to remember what he's doing enough to continue undressing]
[His hands come to his waist, and his thumbs hook beneath the waistband of the shorts before he slides them down and steps out of them. His cheeks flush darker; he glances away, then his hands come to the waistband of his underwear to repeat the motion]
[When they're down, as well, it probably isn't surprising that he's quite distracted, after all; the shorts didn't actually hide very much, all told]
[As promised, she takes a good look as he does, and while her ruffles have ended up covering quite a bit, her cheeks are dark and her eyes bright as she watches him kick away both pairs of shorts.
With that in mind, it probably isn't all that surprising when she reaches out a finger to prod at the tip, just to see]
[He makes a soft sound at the back of his throat - rocks forward into her touch, before he can stop himself, and flushes darker as he forces himself to stillness]
[He takes a shaky breath in - lets it out, just as unsteady]
[Perhaps he's making an effort to be still, because while he does chase after that gently cupping hand, he seems to catch himself - shifts, and shifts again, and then falls motionless, with no small effort]
[She does sound exceptionally pleased, and her hand pulls away completely.
But before he can complain too much she spits in her hand and curls it back around him, starting a series of slow, sure, and now slick strokes. Her other hand smooths over his bare hip, rhythmic as she mouths at his collarbone]
[There isn't much of a complaint, when she pulls away - but his breath catches on a whimper, and his hips chase after her, before he can stop himself]
[When she returns her hand, he shudders with relief, pressing up into it; as though to add to the slickness, a drop of clear moisture has welled up at the tip, spilling over to track its way down the length. His hands, as though not quite sure what to do with themselves, reach to settle at her waist, tracing the outline of her through the shirt]
[So helpful. Her fingers gather the slickness, putting it to good use before the silky fabric over her palms gets too sodden. The brush of lace can only come along for the ride, and she watches his expression to see if it seems to be a welcome addition--at least when she isn't distracted working on a mark just under his collarbone]
[Judging by his expression, the lace is certainly not a bad thing; he shudders hard whenever it catches against the tip, hips rocking restlessly as though to chase after the sensation]
[Possibly the silky feel of the gloves themselves isn't a bad thing, either, judging by how quickly his breathing has grown ragged]
[She pinches the excess lace between pinky finger and thumb, pulling the lace just taut enough to feel more present as it runs over him, especially as counterpoint to her warm skin and the slick fabric.
Her free hand clamps to his hip mostly to hold him steady, thumb brushing an easy back and forth over the jut of his hipbone as he rocks against her]
[He groans when she pulls the lace taut, soft and wavering - gasps, hands running shaky up and down her sides from hip to ribs and then back again]
Oh my god, dude. That's -
[The hand on his hip certainly has its work cut out for it, if it's trying to steady him; it judders forward hard, pressing into the warmth of her touch and the silky fabric both]
[She doesn't attempt to immobilize him or anything, but--save for the steady pump of her good hand--she stays mostly still, apparently more interested in watching and hearing and feeling him squirm than anything]
[He gasps again, on the upstroke - tries to stifle a moan, and isn't entirely successful. If she's in it for the way he squirms, there's definitely plenty to see; the flush has spread down to his chest, by now, and he shivers and shakes on the upstrokes, every time the lace catches at the underside of the head]
Real real good...that sounds like an endorsement. That why you wanted me to wear these in the first place?
[She edges up the pace, somehow catching his head with the lace more often than not. From historical trends at the least he can surely infer that she's interested in getting more of those moans, stifled or not--she chances dragging the ridge of her thumbnail down his frenulum on the downstroke, light, blunt pressure]
[His cheeks flush darker at the question, and his eyes go wide]
Wh-what? I wasn't thinking about -
[What he was thinking about doesn't end up getting said. Instead, the sound she gets in response to the blunt pressure against his frenulum is more like a muffled curse, and his hips jolt forward into the pressure hard as he bites down on his lip. Another generous drop of moisture has gathered at the tip, to begin the slow, trickling path down the length of him]
[And her gaze flicks obviously from his face to the obvious surge of interest. Her voice stays casual if slightly breathy, but the lace stays pulled taut, scratchy against his length. At the end, she twists her grip around him; twists it back, lacy grip firm around the ridge of his head]
So you picked all this excessive lacy stuff just on coincidence? Sounds suspicious.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Who says - who says I'm distracted?
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Maybe I'm saying you're distracting. Like I said, you look good, ruffles or no. ...Which is why you better take that off, and move on to the next.
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Right... right. Better get moving.
[Obliging, he reaches to pull off the shirt again - tosses it to fall carelessly on the chair]
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Her hands follow her gaze, brushing up his sides and over his ribs and across the planes of his chest, because she is bad at this,]
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[His hands come to his waist, and his thumbs hook beneath the waistband of the shorts before he slides them down and steps out of them. His cheeks flush darker; he glances away, then his hands come to the waistband of his underwear to repeat the motion]
[When they're down, as well, it probably isn't surprising that he's quite distracted, after all; the shorts didn't actually hide very much, all told]
O-okay. What, uh. Whatcha got for me?
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With that in mind, it probably isn't all that surprising when she reaches out a finger to prod at the tip, just to see]
...More ruffles. If you hadn't guessed.
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O-oh yeah? Let's... Let's see.
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Xia...
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Mmm? What's up?
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[Perhaps he's making an effort to be still, because while he does chase after that gently cupping hand, he seems to catch himself - shifts, and shifts again, and then falls motionless, with no small effort]
Thought you were gonna - show me.
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Oh, I'll show you, don't you worry. Just thought you might appreciate something more hands-on in the meantime.
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Hands-on ain't... ain't bad. I could get behind hands-on.
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[She does sound exceptionally pleased, and her hand pulls away completely.
But before he can complain too much she spits in her hand and curls it back around him, starting a series of slow, sure, and now slick strokes. Her other hand smooths over his bare hip, rhythmic as she mouths at his collarbone]
'S nice to get your hands dirty sometimes.
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[When she returns her hand, he shudders with relief, pressing up into it; as though to add to the slickness, a drop of clear moisture has welled up at the tip, spilling over to track its way down the length. His hands, as though not quite sure what to do with themselves, reach to settle at her waist, tracing the outline of her through the shirt]
M-man. Those poor gloves.
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...Guess putting 'em back would be bad form?
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[Possibly the silky feel of the gloves themselves isn't a bad thing, either, judging by how quickly his breathing has grown ragged]
K-kinda gotta take em home, now.
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[She pinches the excess lace between pinky finger and thumb, pulling the lace just taut enough to feel more present as it runs over him, especially as counterpoint to her warm skin and the slick fabric.
Her free hand clamps to his hip mostly to hold him steady, thumb brushing an easy back and forth over the jut of his hipbone as he rocks against her]
no subject
Oh my god, dude. That's -
[The hand on his hip certainly has its work cut out for it, if it's trying to steady him; it judders forward hard, pressing into the warmth of her touch and the silky fabric both]
no subject
[She doesn't attempt to immobilize him or anything, but--save for the steady pump of her good hand--she stays mostly still, apparently more interested in watching and hearing and feeling him squirm than anything]
no subject
[He gasps again, on the upstroke - tries to stifle a moan, and isn't entirely successful. If she's in it for the way he squirms, there's definitely plenty to see; the flush has spread down to his chest, by now, and he shivers and shakes on the upstrokes, every time the lace catches at the underside of the head]
no subject
[She edges up the pace, somehow catching his head with the lace more often than not. From historical trends at the least he can surely infer that she's interested in getting more of those moans, stifled or not--she chances dragging the ridge of her thumbnail down his frenulum on the downstroke, light, blunt pressure]
no subject
Wh-what? I wasn't thinking about -
[What he was thinking about doesn't end up getting said. Instead, the sound she gets in response to the blunt pressure against his frenulum is more like a muffled curse, and his hips jolt forward into the pressure hard as he bites down on his lip. Another generous drop of moisture has gathered at the tip, to begin the slow, trickling path down the length of him]
no subject
[And her gaze flicks obviously from his face to the obvious surge of interest. Her voice stays casual if slightly breathy, but the lace stays pulled taut, scratchy against his length. At the end, she twists her grip around him; twists it back, lacy grip firm around the ridge of his head]
So you picked all this excessive lacy stuff just on coincidence? Sounds suspicious.
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[His mouth falls open, and his eyelids shiver closed; the hands at her sides take fistfuls of her shirt, as though to ground him]
It ain't - it ain't suspicious, I just -
Th-thought it'd look good.
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