hands
Hands
Author: Faechick -
Rating: NC-17 (It's soft, though.)
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em; the WB can go suck some lemons (or other things) because it's not like teenagers don't have sex, and 16 is legal age of consent in England (and Georgia, where I write from), and it's not like we don't know they're ficticious characters.
Spoilers: Well, there are these girls in these books, you see...
Feedback: Um. Yes?
Note: Dreiser is my inspiration. You can check out her WiP (Damnit!) story at www.dreiser.net - do it! Also, if you want permissions to post this or something, just let me know. I won't say no, probably.
She sighs, a smile gracing her lips as soft hands caress her shoulders. They gently brush her hair away from her neck, lingering to savor the feel as a warm breath, inhaled close to her ear, is let out again slowly across her cheek. Gentle, feather-light touches up and down her collar bone, a half-massaging rub at the junction between shoulder and neck, bitten nails dragging down behind and under her hairline to tickle the newly grown tresses found there.
She moans, soft palms rubbing against her stomache - someplace she never could stand to be touched except by those hands - and moving upwards. The fabric of the t-shirt she wears to bed (the only t-shirt she owns) has never felt so restrictive before; ironic, she thinks, since its freedom is the reason she wears it to sleep in. Her back arches as the hands skim over her breasts, seeking to tease.
She cries out softly, her hands coming into the fray as they clutch at denim grinding against the back of her thighs. A low laugh in her ear calls a wave of heat over her skin, and the t-shirt becomes even more unbearable. All contact is lost, and her eyes pull open in the shock of abandonment before the shirt blocks her view and relieves her flustered body.
She turns, her nails - longer than her lover's and not bitten, never bitten - tracing a gentle jawline to honostly red lips, lips that have never seen real lipstick (only the occaisonal gloss). Those lips pull her fingers in, and a hot tongue teases her unbitten nails as the hands once more search her body, caressing her back and moving lower.
She leans into curves and pushes her lips where her fingers used to be, tangling her hands in curly brown hair. Breasts barely covered by her lingere press into a soft sweater, its roughness exciting her nipples to hardness as those hands cup her ass - deriere, she thinks, and smiles into her kiss - and cause her to moan. The owner of those hands moans, too, and suddenly the sweater is too much for either of them and they part again to remove it and the jeans.
She gasps as she's slammed into the dresser behind her, its wooden edge digging into the back of her legs as they're being pried apart. Brown eyes meet blue and a flash of white is seen before a sharp pain on her shoulder indicates her lover's inclination to bite has taken effect, and she finds herself forming a sound between a moan and a laugh. A soft kiss over the new not-quite-bleeding wound and their lips meet again while a blue satin bra is thrown across the room.
She grunts as her body is lifted and divested of the matching panties and then roughly dropped so the hands can continue their eager wanderings. Finding herself annoyed that she is the only one fully disrobed, she busies herself with working the utilitarian clasp on the equally utilitarian white bra that does nothing to complement the stunning figure her lover has. The hands reach up to help, and that low laugh escapes those naturally red lips and she finds herself unable to do anything other than moan loudly in need.
She surrenders to those hands, forgetting the pair of utilitarian panties still being worn, and delights in how they know her body so well. Grazing her nipples, caressing the undersides of her breasts, tickling her belly in a decidedly non-ticklish way, and moving slowly and deliciously lower; a touch along the outside of each thigh, a featherlight trail inside and up to run slowly through the soft curls at the apex of thighs.
She bucks towards her lover, pleading pitifully and not caring - loving, in fact - that she can be made to do this. And then those hands are there, in her and on her, pumping and caressing, rubbing and feeling her into ecstacy. As she calms, those hands move to her waist and lift her up, pulling her into two waiting arms and a loving set of real red lips.
The lips pull away and, "Please," they say, in obvious need. "Fleur, please."
She smiles as she remembers a pair of still worn panties and loves the fact that those hands are going to be clutching at her in just a few minutes. Her own lips part and her accent is heavy, "Lay down, 'Ermione."
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