"Oh you'd better," grinding up against him. "You had me thinking about you last thing before I fell asleep, first thing in the shower, every day this month. We have," kissing him between words. "So much time to make up for."
It feels remarkably similar to having a broken bone snapped back together, to finding that she might be a little more whole than she'd realized. She feels like herself right now: wanted, and not for the fan dance she presents.
Fuck, she feels so good when she wriggles like that. Of course, those images she's painting don't hurt either. He's pretty confident he's ready to start heading towards where they're looking to go.
Sweeney's breath begins to deepen, and his hand lifts to cup her face. His gaze dips to her lips and back to her eyes with hints of yearning.
"Know we ain't got that chair." He traces his thumb slowly across her lip, his attention slipping to it as it does. His eyes finds hers again with an arch of his brow.
"But ya wanna give it a go anyways?" He's not talking about dancing.
She turns her head ever so slightly into his hand, touches the tip of her tongue to his thumb as it traces her lip.
"Hell yeah I do." She's so used to having to hold herself back the second she gets to this point, thinking about riding him, craving the sounds she can draw out of him. But it's a new year and she can have him as many times as they want and oh, God, does she want this.
He offers the faintest of nods and a quick flick of the tip of tongue up over her lips, before he pushes up and off her. As Sweeney settles on his back, he hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his trousers and shoves them down over his hips. The grass is cool on his freshly-bared skin.
His eyes are keen on her, savoring each movement, even when she's not yet on him.
Again she thinks of him naked, and again contents herself with what he's willing to share. She straddles him, running her fingers along his hips, the tops of his thighs.
"How's this?" She hasn't settled her weight on him. Instead she's teasing him, rolling her hips and brushing against him.
Sweeney shivers and his breath catches. Even in asking for something, one can't really prepare for getting it.
"Very convincin'," he offers, one dimple sinking.
His hands lift, ready to take her hips, but suddenly he isn't sure which game they're looking to play. So they hover a couple of inches away from her skin, and his brow lifts in question as to if he's supposed to not be touching her.
Sweeney's sure he's going to end up winning either way.
"Hands off," she purrs, but she makes full use of being able to touch him with her hands, raking them through his hair and along his shoulder where her teethmarks show.
This would be easier if his trousers were all the way off, but she's worked with less.
He accepts the terms, moving his hands away, but then there's the dilemma of where the fuck he's supposed to put them. Sweeney rests them in the grass at his sides, but at the tingling sensation she's already nudging through his skin, her quickly realizes that grabbing it isn't going to stop him from doing shit.
Sweeney lifts his hands again, not to her, but perpendicular to the ground where his elbows are resting. He swallows as his focus dances anywhere but her while he does his best to calculate a solution. He considers resting his head on them, but has another spark of inspiration.
The movement is slow and deliberate, far from natural, but he manages to rest his hands back slightly above his head. Not nearly close enough to cross or press both with one hand, but nevertheless, a very new and somewhat uncomfortably vulnerable position.
Try things that are unfamiliar.
He doubts this was on the list when the advice was given, but it is no less apt.
She likes this, likes having him laid out so well for her. There's no music but her movements are fluid enough she doesn't really need it. She stretches, rolling her hips again but this time to settle into a dance she's done for him before. But that was months ago, well before he ever kissed her, back when she had felt accomplished just by having him look at her.
So...maybe this was going to be harder than anticipated. At least it wasn't what they started the night with; that would have been utterly unbearable.
As it is, at least it's making things harder. So that's welcome.
Sweeney's fingers flex as he fights to keep the backs of his hands on the grass, his eyes unblinking and never straying from her. He remembers this one, but he'd only ever seen it from feet away. Certainly not on top of him, close enough to feel the warmth of her skin.
He swallows and does his best to focus his breath.
"The first time I did this one," she can't remember if it was the first or second time she danced for him but she remembers this routine. "I wanted you to touch me so much my skin tingled. And I went home and I went to bed and I dreamed about you."
The aching in him forces his shoulders to press up to prevent his hips from doing so, his core coiled tightly. He can't seem to will it to relax. Sweeney's elbows start to slide down, leaving his hands next to his shoulders. His neck strains up as he lifts his chin with a suggestion of something between an invitation and a challenge.
"I've got a hammock in the living room," he's seen it but might not remember it, given the last time he was in that cabin. "And in the dream we were trying to figure out how to fuck in it. And we couldn't and it was the most frustrating dream."
To pacify herself she allows herself a moment to grind against him.
Well, maybe not something he can oblige her in right now.
He doesn't have a moment to consider it before he has to bite back a whimper. Fuck, she's so warm. Sweeney's hands instinctively lift from the grass, getting nearly a foot up before he pushes them back down. His head tilts back as he wills himself to focus, pulling a sharp breath in. It doesn't come back out.
He tries again, but the words keep catching.
"Think--think ya might. Might want one. In here?" He forces himself to swallow.
"A hammock, a chair," another slow grind, working to get him hard enough for her to take in. "What else are we missing? What have you pictured doing to me?"
"No crazy positions?" She takes him in a little at a time, just the tip as they say, pulling back and starting again to see how long she'll get away with it. The real question becomes how long she can stand it which, mercifully for him, isn't long.
She doesn't quite stop dancing once he's inside her though, which allows her to tighten certain muscles around him.
His lips are forced tight, muffling the whimpers that beg her to take him already.
Sweeney tries so hard, but she doesn't make it all the way down before his hands are on the tops of her thighs. To his credit, he doesn't push, but his body can't bear the distance.
He can only manage about ten seconds of her dancing before his hands are back on her hips, fighting for the same restraint.
"Call me old-fashioned," he growls, his voice dropped husky.
"On ya, o'er ya, pressin' ya up on something, back on somethin'..." His fingertips sink into her flesh, but he doesn't shove.
"I ain't that picky. 'S long as I end up in ya." He can't help but arch into her in illustration.
Sweeney's recollection of shit isn't great on a good day. It's worse when there isn't much blood in his brain. Leaves him improvising, which he's guessing will be close enough for her.
He curls up to sitting, then slides his hand up her spine and tangles it in her hair. His grip tightens sharply, and he yanks her head back. Sweeney runs his tongue hotly from the dip of her throat to the tip of her chin, his other hand grasping hard on her hip to keep her in place.
His grip twisting a touch, more from angle than direct cruelty, he bends her back, arching her chest up so he bite roughly at her unmarked skin.
She wants to be purple, he's committed to doing what he's able. And to loving every minute of it.
The sound she makes would have the neighbors blushing if they could hear, a deeply pleasured sound from low in her chest. When he bites her she squirms to get him deeper inside her.
More, please, she would say if she could, but he has her back arched and her head back, so she can only communicate it with eager sounds.
He lifts his knees, pressing them against her back, if only so he can get his feet under him enough to continue the arch backward until she reaches the grass and he's left above her. It's not the most graceful of repositionings, but it gets him where he needs to go.
Since he's lost the warmth of her anyways, he continues his mouth's path downward. His fingers loosen, but just a touch. It's less that he's thinking of releasing her, and more that he needs to have better range of motion. As such, he keeps twisting her back as his bites move on and around; her side, her hip.
He shoves her knee open, back to the grass. Sweeney's teeth are rougher as he bites the soft skin of her inner thigh.
That bite hurts in a different way than the others do, it's sharper and earns a yelp and then a low chuckle as her knees open for him. He has her completely at his mercy; the only thing not controlled by the arch of her spine are her hands, with grasp furtively at the grass.
That sweet yelp and gifted compliance makes him smile against her skin. Three more bites follow, from just above her knee to her midthigh. All are hard with the promise of deep coloring.
Sweeney draws his tongue in a line up them, then higher still. But before he runs out of leg, he abandons her skin and eases his fingers, allowing her full range of motion without removing his hand from her hair.
He rises above her, but doesn't hurry back in her, just taking a moment to smile down at her wickedly and lick his lips.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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It feels remarkably similar to having a broken bone snapped back together, to finding that she might be a little more whole than she'd realized. She feels like herself right now: wanted, and not for the fan dance she presents.
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Sweeney's breath begins to deepen, and his hand lifts to cup her face. His gaze dips to her lips and back to her eyes with hints of yearning.
"Know we ain't got that chair." He traces his thumb slowly across her lip, his attention slipping to it as it does. His eyes finds hers again with an arch of his brow.
"But ya wanna give it a go anyways?" He's not talking about dancing.
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"Hell yeah I do." She's so used to having to hold herself back the second she gets to this point, thinking about riding him, craving the sounds she can draw out of him. But it's a new year and she can have him as many times as they want and oh, God, does she want this.
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His eyes are keen on her, savoring each movement, even when she's not yet on him.
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"How's this?" She hasn't settled her weight on him. Instead she's teasing him, rolling her hips and brushing against him.
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"Very convincin'," he offers, one dimple sinking.
His hands lift, ready to take her hips, but suddenly he isn't sure which game they're looking to play. So they hover a couple of inches away from her skin, and his brow lifts in question as to if he's supposed to not be touching her.
Sweeney's sure he's going to end up winning either way.
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This would be easier if his trousers were all the way off, but she's worked with less.
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Sweeney lifts his hands again, not to her, but perpendicular to the ground where his elbows are resting. He swallows as his focus dances anywhere but her while he does his best to calculate a solution. He considers resting his head on them, but has another spark of inspiration.
The movement is slow and deliberate, far from natural, but he manages to rest his hands back slightly above his head. Not nearly close enough to cross or press both with one hand, but nevertheless, a very new and somewhat uncomfortably vulnerable position.
Try things that are unfamiliar.
He doubts this was on the list when the advice was given, but it is no less apt.
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As it is, at least it's making things harder. So that's welcome.
Sweeney's fingers flex as he fights to keep the backs of his hands on the grass, his eyes unblinking and never straying from her. He remembers this one, but he'd only ever seen it from feet away. Certainly not on top of him, close enough to feel the warmth of her skin.
He swallows and does his best to focus his breath.
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"Yeah?" Fuck, he wants to taste her.
"I do anythin' in particular?"
'Cause odds are good, he's happy to oblige her.
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To pacify herself she allows herself a moment to grind against him.
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He doesn't have a moment to consider it before he has to bite back a whimper. Fuck, she's so warm. Sweeney's hands instinctively lift from the grass, getting nearly a foot up before he pushes them back down. His head tilts back as he wills himself to focus, pulling a sharp breath in. It doesn't come back out.
He tries again, but the words keep catching.
"Think--think ya might. Might want one. In here?" He forces himself to swallow.
"Could always try."
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"Fuck, woman." Sweeney blinks, trying to focus.
"Truth told, I don't get ta thinkin' much 'bout the where." He swallows carefully.
"I'd be happy ta take ya on the fuckin' floor." Or in the grass. This is definitely better. Though he'd still welcome the variety.
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She doesn't quite stop dancing once he's inside her though, which allows her to tighten certain muscles around him.
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Sweeney tries so hard, but she doesn't make it all the way down before his hands are on the tops of her thighs. To his credit, he doesn't push, but his body can't bear the distance.
He can only manage about ten seconds of her dancing before his hands are back on her hips, fighting for the same restraint.
"Call me old-fashioned," he growls, his voice dropped husky.
"On ya, o'er ya, pressin' ya up on something, back on somethin'..." His fingertips sink into her flesh, but he doesn't shove.
"I ain't that picky. 'S long as I end up in ya." He can't help but arch into her in illustration.
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"Why don't you show me what you wouldn't let yourself do the last time I danced for you?"
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Sweeney's recollection of shit isn't great on a good day. It's worse when there isn't much blood in his brain. Leaves him improvising, which he's guessing will be close enough for her.
He curls up to sitting, then slides his hand up her spine and tangles it in her hair. His grip tightens sharply, and he yanks her head back. Sweeney runs his tongue hotly from the dip of her throat to the tip of her chin, his other hand grasping hard on her hip to keep her in place.
His grip twisting a touch, more from angle than direct cruelty, he bends her back, arching her chest up so he bite roughly at her unmarked skin.
She wants to be purple, he's committed to doing what he's able. And to loving every minute of it.
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More, please, she would say if she could, but he has her back arched and her head back, so she can only communicate it with eager sounds.
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Since he's lost the warmth of her anyways, he continues his mouth's path downward. His fingers loosen, but just a touch. It's less that he's thinking of releasing her, and more that he needs to have better range of motion. As such, he keeps twisting her back as his bites move on and around; her side, her hip.
He shoves her knee open, back to the grass. Sweeney's teeth are rougher as he bites the soft skin of her inner thigh.
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Sweeney draws his tongue in a line up them, then higher still. But before he runs out of leg, he abandons her skin and eases his fingers, allowing her full range of motion without removing his hand from her hair.
He rises above her, but doesn't hurry back in her, just taking a moment to smile down at her wickedly and lick his lips.
"Somethin' like that."
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She had wanted him a few minutes ago as she teased him, but now she needs him in a wild, singularly focused way. "Hard, please, Sweeney-"
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