[ No questions are good. He doesn't wear any of his scars as a Croix de Guerre. They're just there -- a byproduct of his job. His abdominal muscles flutter under her hand, reflex. Her coolness is a stark contrast to the heat he's exuding, a ghostly rime rising off his body in the chill air. His exhale is lost in the cool-warm touch of skin as he presses in close. Thigh wedging between hers, nudging them apart, the flat of his hand a hard pressure on her back. He presses his hot face into the curve of her neck. Flicks his tongue over the marks he's left, salve. Hei is capable of almost anything, but gentleness -- that's a rarity in his arsenal. ]
[ This position is familiar -- a replication of dozens of knee-tremblers and half-clothed embraces in back alleys. But it's hardly comfortable. He mouths out words into the shell of her ear, the syllables slurred and low, ]
... we should find a better spot.
[ Maybe he can spread her coat on the floor and have her lie down. ]
action; shed
[ This position is familiar -- a replication of dozens of knee-tremblers and half-clothed embraces in back alleys. But it's hardly comfortable. He mouths out words into the shell of her ear, the syllables slurred and low, ]
... we should find a better spot.
[ Maybe he can spread her coat on the floor and have her lie down. ]