As moments and movements and music unfolded, all of it organic, if some of it random, there was a problem, as distinct and heavy as a kiss on the lips, as their breathing. That problem was the fact that they were at an impasse, a deadlock, a stalemate, as surely as Cheriss’ legs wrapped around Drane’s waist.
It was a kind of silent disagreement. A situation of recognition as to action, as to how and when to progress from here, no matter emotion, no matter fear. They leaned into each other, standing or sitting, on floor or counter. He kissed, she kissed, touched one another all over, soft flesh, hard muscle, smooth skin, dark-skinned, light-skinned, man, woman.
That much was in unison. No conflict in this except the violence beneath the surface; that burning passion to burn one another, to set this kitchen on fire, frozen in time, and bleed into each other’s heat.
So where was their disagreement? Maybe it was how Cheriss thought those leggings of hers were doing anything but teasing. He had already seen how they toned her shapely legs, hugging them amid the curve of her thighs, and their fabric was driving Drane absolutely insane, maddening him that moment as a hand squeezed her thigh.
Cheriss believed that her bra was born in modesty, but in reality it was a haunting thing, and as red as a bloody fire. She was under the mistaken impression that those garments she had left on her person, keeping her from being naked, from her sneakers to her bra, her leggings and whatever colored panties beneath, were important, were warranted, were permitted. They weren’t.
So, as that fire whispered within his core, as that whisper welled and became a roar, Drane broke his kiss on her lips simply to trap her lower lip between his, as if it was bitten, and the next moment he didn’t care about permission, whether his action was bidden. He just did it.
His hands hugged her thighs, thighs that squeezed him and teased him inside, fingers sliding upward to her hips again, drumming her waist and lower back the way one drums fingers on a tabletop, as if offering a second of taunting, a taste of what’s to come.
It lasted only an instant before his thumbs dipped into her black fabric, the front and back of her leggings, and shifted. He had to be quick for this, harsh and cruel, because of her position, the way she was seated. That and, granted, that passion had maddened him.
So Drane gripped her pants and tugged them down, ripped them away from her backside, exposed her lower body, her panties, the skin around those wavy hips, those flexible thighs, rubbing one with his thumb.
His other hand slipped to her hip again, at the crook between thigh and backside, and he kissed her again, as his fire burned, like this universe burned where it no longer existed to him in their shared kitchen.
@Sicadorito (@Cheriss Ktrame)
It was a kind of silent disagreement. A situation of recognition as to action, as to how and when to progress from here, no matter emotion, no matter fear. They leaned into each other, standing or sitting, on floor or counter. He kissed, she kissed, touched one another all over, soft flesh, hard muscle, smooth skin, dark-skinned, light-skinned, man, woman.
That much was in unison. No conflict in this except the violence beneath the surface; that burning passion to burn one another, to set this kitchen on fire, frozen in time, and bleed into each other’s heat.
So where was their disagreement? Maybe it was how Cheriss thought those leggings of hers were doing anything but teasing. He had already seen how they toned her shapely legs, hugging them amid the curve of her thighs, and their fabric was driving Drane absolutely insane, maddening him that moment as a hand squeezed her thigh.
Cheriss believed that her bra was born in modesty, but in reality it was a haunting thing, and as red as a bloody fire. She was under the mistaken impression that those garments she had left on her person, keeping her from being naked, from her sneakers to her bra, her leggings and whatever colored panties beneath, were important, were warranted, were permitted. They weren’t.
So, as that fire whispered within his core, as that whisper welled and became a roar, Drane broke his kiss on her lips simply to trap her lower lip between his, as if it was bitten, and the next moment he didn’t care about permission, whether his action was bidden. He just did it.
His hands hugged her thighs, thighs that squeezed him and teased him inside, fingers sliding upward to her hips again, drumming her waist and lower back the way one drums fingers on a tabletop, as if offering a second of taunting, a taste of what’s to come.
It lasted only an instant before his thumbs dipped into her black fabric, the front and back of her leggings, and shifted. He had to be quick for this, harsh and cruel, because of her position, the way she was seated. That and, granted, that passion had maddened him.
So Drane gripped her pants and tugged them down, ripped them away from her backside, exposed her lower body, her panties, the skin around those wavy hips, those flexible thighs, rubbing one with his thumb.
His other hand slipped to her hip again, at the crook between thigh and backside, and he kissed her again, as his fire burned, like this universe burned where it no longer existed to him in their shared kitchen.
@Sicadorito (@Cheriss Ktrame)
