the_gene_genie | (no subject)

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alex

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He wastes no time in getting himself upstairs. He's only been dreaming of this kind of scenario for about three years now; he'd be lying if he tried to claim he weren't a bit nervous, but it's the good kind of nerves. He's definitely not going to let them stop him enjoying this.

Fifteen minutes, she said. That gives him time to have a quick wash and brush his teeth, and chuck a few glasses of Scotch down his throat. It crosses his mind that he might have time to give himself some relief before she gets here too, in the interests of making it last; he's in two minds though, and she'll be here any second. So he leaves it, and forces himself to go and sit on the sofa instead, and just wait.

He's never been the best at sitting still. She might think anticipation's the best part, but this is torture.

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He doesn't find it awkward, ever - but then, he's used to it. He just lets his head lean back, eyes half-closed in sated peace as he watches her tidy herself up.

Before she's finished, while she's still fumbling for tissues, his long fingers find the button that marks the entrance to her trousers. It was at the side all along, and now the front half is hanging loose, just inviting his hand to slide inside. Inside, where her legs are already spread as she straddles him, where she's already excited, where's he's going to put himself in not very long at all. The thought makes him swallow hard; if he hadn't just come, that might have finished him off.

But he did, and he'll need a few minutes to recover. It doesn't stop him running the pad of his fingertip around the inner edge of her knickers. No direct contact yet. But it's on the horizon.

She shudders out a breath as his hands slides over the silky fabric, feeling the heat of his skin near where she wants him. The tissues are cast aside, forgotten. She closes one hand around his wrist, the other coming to rest flat against his chest, fingers splayed wide.

Her voice is pitched low, but still tight with arousal. "There's stockings in that bag. And frilly underthings. And I don't want you to miss out on frilly underthings."

She's half-afraid if he gets her started, she won't be able to stop.

His hand stills.

'You changed your mind? I can't make you come?'

It's up to her. His urgency has calmed, a little. But he's never not ready to play - then again, he doesn't want to throw her off her stride.

'I don't wanna miss out on them either.'

"Oh, you can. It's just..."

She leans down to him and catches his mouth in a hot, wet kiss.

"I'm about to tear your clothes off and have my wicked way with you, frilly underthings be damned."

He moans, loud and hard, and expertly pushes material out of the way with one finger. He's still kissing her as he presses inside, two fingers pressuring up the inside wall where he knows she likes it best.

'I'm gonna have you.'

He's panting; pulling out, pushing in. Slow, and deep, his thumb rubbing her clit through her knickers.

'But you're gonna get dressed up for it. Just don't put the pants on, or they'll get ruined.'

She keens against his mouth, never breaking the kiss. Her hips shift to accept him and both hands snake around his neck. When she has to breath, her forehead rests against his, closing them off from anything but this.

Strong hips rock in time with his touch, that slick heat pulsing hard around his fingers every time he swipes a thumb over her pearl.

"I want your mouth," she breathes. "Your mouth and your hands. And your cock, right there." She grips him with the last word, holding those penetrating fingers in a velvet vice.

'Oh, I'll eat you out. You'll scream me bloody name.'

His lips nip at hers as his left hand pulls her underwear further to the side, letting his thumb pleasure her directly. God, she's so wet. She's so wet, he just wants to drown in there forever.

'On your back, tarted up to the nines with my tongue inside you. Shit-'

He pulls back to breath, his chest heaving, already more than half hard again. His touch is unrelenting, his free hand now clamped on her arse, keeping her where he wants her.

Her hips roll against his hand, fucking him back as surely as he's fucking her, hard and hungry and just a little bit desperate. Her hands fist in his shirt, keeping him close as he talks, her breath coming ragged and shallow.

"Not gonna let me tie you down? Tease you by kneeling over your face, hmm? Maybe I'll suck your cock at the same -- oh -- time."

That image makes her move quicker, a wash of heat running through her whole body.

His eyes go wide.

'Jesus Christ. If you sit on my face, I'll love you forever.'

His fingers push her along faster, insisting on her orgasm. He'll have it. He'll have it again and again, all night if he can. She can do whatever she sodding well likes to him, as long as she keeps taking what he's got to offer.

She gasps, and lets out a breathless laugh. If she wasn't tangled up in him, he might get a punch for that.

"After all, we've been through, that's the one, little edge, I needed?" The words melt into another harsh moan, and she goes rigid, letting him work his magic on her. Her grip on him tightens, and she holds her breath, vibrating, striving for that peak, striving for him.

"Gene..."

He's told her before. Sort of. But now is not the time to worry about it; he turns his head, pushes his lips to hers hard, licking his way into her mouth.

'Tha's it. Tha's it, stay still, let me...'

He finds that magic spot, presses into it and rubs, while his thumb flicks feather-light swipes across the top of her clit. He looks her in the eye, breathes her breath, pushes for it all the way.

'C'mon, Bols. Let me have it.'

She grips him so tight, holds to him like he is the only thing in the universe, because right here, right now, he is exactly that. His touch draws her voice up from deep within, a series of soft cries, twisted up in bliss.

He looks into her eyes, gives her that connection, and she feels it. It sparks through her like lightning and she shatters, her body jerking and quivering, bucking hard against his hand. She cries out again, louder this time, as it takes her and shakes her like a rag doll, until all she can do is cling to him and let him pull her apart piece by glorious piece. And she never once breaks eye contact, not even at the very end.

He grinning by the time she's done; a breathless, desperate grin of satisfaction and arousal, and Christ, she's perfect. He still strokes inside her, just gently, just easing her through.

And when it looks likes she's calming, he presses his lips to hers again, so gentle the touch is almost not there. Just letting her know that he's there, and that she's beautiful, and he's never going to stop doing that to her, ever.

When the tension breaks, she sags against him, her eyes finally falling closed. She rests her forehead against his and just tries to catch her breath. There's a fine sheen of sweat on her throat in the valley between her breasts. One hand slips down to touch his wrist, and she leans into his kiss, a quiet, breathless little moan on her lips. There are no words for how happy just being here, all tangled up with him, makes her.

When her head finally clears, she grins, a little on the tipsy side. "And I didn't even have to get all tarted up for you."

'Oi,' he says, quietly.

'You said you still would.'

He's not finished unless she is.

She grins and gently nips his lower lip.

"And I will, love. But I might go have a rinse first. You've mussed my hair and my lipstick needs freshening."

She sits back and musses his hair in turn.

"Is there wine?"

Edited 2014-03-09 17:34 (UTC)

He endures the hair mussing, because it's her, and because he's in a nice post-coital haze that is disturbed only by the desire for more of the same.

'What do you take me for?'

Of course there's wine. He pecks her on the lips in his turn, then rubs his hand over her arse.

'G'on, then. I want a fag. And you want to tart yourself up for me.'

She parts from him, a feline smirk curling across her lips. Her hands smooth down the front of his shirt, and she pulls her teeth across her lower lip. Her smirk blossoms into a proper grin and she pushes herself up, catching her trousers at the waist and zipping them up. She doesn't bother with the button.

"Pour me a glass, will you? I'll be right back."

'Aye.'

He watches her all the way to the bathroom first, though. And then lets his head drop back on the sofa cushions, so he can take a deep breath and let it out slow.

Christ, this is going to be good.

He makes himself presentable, pours wine, smokes a cigarette. He'll wait as long as she likes. This is her show, and he's more than happy to put himself in her hands for it.

She hooks a finger in the bag's silk ribbon handle, and gives it a little twirl as she departs.

A little while later, he hears the shower come on. She takes her time, relaxing under the hot water, humming tunelessly as she dries off. She keeps it simple, a hint of perfume on her wrists and between her breasts. She pulls on her silk stockings, adjusting the top hem to lie smooth against her thighs. She wrapped the basque around her waist and clipped the busk shut. It took a bit of stretching to lace it up as tight as she wanted, without help, but she managed. She clipped the garters to the stockings, and then pulled out the four inch heels. Black and elegant, like the whole ensemble.

She did her lipstick last, blotting it carefully with a tissue, and then taking one last look in the mirror. That should do it, she thought, brushing her hair back over her ears. It's a strange mixture of 2008 and 1983, but she doesn't think he'll notice.

She calls out to him, her voice a playful singsong. "Ready or not, here I come."

Oh, he's ready. She got his motor running again with the way she came, and he's waiting now; hungry for it. He's got through a few fags, thrown back a couple of hefty Scotches. And then he heard the shower go off, so he poured wine, kicked off his boots and socks, and contemplated just getting into bed. But no, it's too much fun letting her undress him.

So he'd sat back down on the couch, shirt half-undone and belt unfastened. His hand rests lightly between his legs - not hiding his interest; even encouraging it along with the odd squeeze when he thinks of what she's doing in there. And when she calls out, he doesn't make her wait.

'Hope you're ready, luv.'

Christ, he's going to make her scream.

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