Despite the....everything eliciting a person's semi-public humiliation implies - despite, because, one of those - Alice knows he would never hurt her; more than that, she knows he loves her the way lightning loves heat, and that's in every inch of her hazy smile as she ghosts the backs of her knuckles along his cheek. Her lean back on to her elbows, on his offered coat, has a regal quality to it: that fabled princess in her tower. Except this one has no intention of waiting for a prince to rescue her from the monster, no, instead knows she is far better served by this, letting the monster fuck her instead, open her up with lips and tongue and teeth.
She makes a soft, coaxing sound and tangles her fingers in his curls when he licks over her nipples, the alternate heat of his mouth and cool breath making her hips shift in tiny increments. There's something about feeling him through the mesh that makes everything a little duller but more electric at the same time, a warm shock that never quite sharpens into the relief he already has her aching for, a low, heavy throb thing coiling in the pit of her stomach.
When he moves down she does jump, a sinuous little wriggle of her hips following after; no matter how many times he does this to her (and she knows by now it's a favorite) it;s always a surprise; sometimes fast and biting, all suction that sends her hands flying down to hold his shoulders, sensation she can't name arcing up through her, but sometimes - mostly - mostly it is like this, never quite knowing what he'll do next, except that it will be as slow as pulling taffy. He takes her apart like this, breath by breath until she's writhing and arching up to his mouth, all sense of propriety eroded.
If that's what it's to be today - and it seems like it is - she shudders, half in anticipation, half with tiny tremors already dissolving her. His head isn't too far away for her to reach; she stretches a hand down over her thigh to card her fingers through those curls some more, again a movement with split purposes: half to encourage him (...futilely) to do more than just touch, too light and too still and not nearly enough, and half just to be touching him. It's grounding, in a way she couldn't quantify if asked. "Please, Theo."
Vague; it could be 'please, anything.' "Not worried, not exactly," --she can't think, it's maddening to feel him only there, "everyone knows you fuck me."
More accurately absolutely everyone in the department speculates: was her hair up when she entered the office and down as she left? Is she brighter, happier, more disheveled? Are there bruises scattered along hips and thighs, the long column of her neck and shoulders? (yes, and yes, and yes, all of these things are true, but that's not fact. She could just have a boyfriend who's a student. She might really enjoy her work.)
So she's not worried. What she is, she doesn't articulate; reassurance isn't the response she's after, from him.
no subject
She makes a soft, coaxing sound and tangles her fingers in his curls when he licks over her nipples, the alternate heat of his mouth and cool breath making her hips shift in tiny increments. There's something about feeling him through the mesh that makes everything a little duller but more electric at the same time, a warm shock that never quite sharpens into the relief he already has her aching for, a low, heavy throb thing coiling in the pit of her stomach.
When he moves down she does jump, a sinuous little wriggle of her hips following after; no matter how many times he does this to her (and she knows by now it's a favorite) it;s always a surprise; sometimes fast and biting, all suction that sends her hands flying down to hold his shoulders, sensation she can't name arcing up through her, but sometimes - mostly - mostly it is like this, never quite knowing what he'll do next, except that it will be as slow as pulling taffy. He takes her apart like this, breath by breath until she's writhing and arching up to his mouth, all sense of propriety eroded.
If that's what it's to be today - and it seems like it is - she shudders, half in anticipation, half with tiny tremors already dissolving her. His head isn't too far away for her to reach; she stretches a hand down over her thigh to card her fingers through those curls some more, again a movement with split purposes: half to encourage him (...futilely) to do more than just touch, too light and too still and not nearly enough, and half just to be touching him. It's grounding, in a way she couldn't quantify if asked. "Please, Theo."
Vague; it could be 'please, anything.' "Not worried, not exactly," --she can't think, it's maddening to feel him only there, "everyone knows you fuck me."
More accurately absolutely everyone in the department speculates: was her hair up when she entered the office and down as she left? Is she brighter, happier, more disheveled? Are there bruises scattered along hips and thighs, the long column of her neck and shoulders? (yes, and yes, and yes, all of these things are true, but that's not fact. She could just have a boyfriend who's a student. She might really enjoy her work.)
So she's not worried. What she is, she doesn't articulate; reassurance isn't the response she's after, from him.