rosarianoath

[She pauses, leaning back a little to look at him. In the mood for conversation? Inconvenient when she just wants a hot bath, but she humors him.]

Baked chicken and lemon rice. You'll like it.

[He's never complained about her cooking so far.]

I’m sure I will.

[Speaking of hot water: there’s a faint sheen of sweat on the back of his neck, around his hairline. He turns and meets her eyes, just briefly. He thinks about her lips. He looks away politely and steps around her to get to the microwave.]

Goodnight, Clive.

[He doesn't need to know the details of her night, but he'll hear her head upstairs and shuffle around some before the sound of the filling tub can be heard.]

[As he eats halfway-warmed chicken directly out of the container, he listens to the water run and slowly loses the battle of self-control. His mind fills with images of her undressing, the splay of her legs as she steps in, the way the water laps against her tits.

He breathes out, long and slow, and puts the dish in the sink. He moves to the stairs and starts up, footfall heavy even by night. ]

[The image in his mind isn't far from the truth. She's sunk down to her shoulders in the water, hair haphazardly piled on the top of her head, eyes shut. She dumped some floral scented bath oil into the hot water, and she's thoroughly enjoying the scent and the heat.

She tells herself she'll get out once the water starts to cool, but a part of her wishes she could just sleep in the warmth.

It's the closest she gets to what she misses so dearly.

She can hear Clive's footsteps, and pretends she wasn't think of him.]

[His path takes him
past his own door and right to hers. With little more than a hazy thought, he walks through her bedroom to the master bathroom door. He doesn’t enter — keep a hold on it, Clive — but his footsteps do end just outside the door, so close that he ends up leaning against the frame. Every sense feels fine-tuned, narrowed to her and what she’s doing. She’s so close. He can’t have her. She doesn’t want him. He feels beads of sweat running down his neck, body temperature flaring.

He puts a hand to the frame and grips it just to keep himself from reaching into his trousers to fondle himself.]

[That's odd. Why is he in her bedroom? Perhaps he means to leave her a gift like she did for him, but he knows shes home. That she'd hear him. And it sounds like he's right outside the door.]

... Clive?

[Strange.]

[What does he even say? I will drop dead if I don’t have you? This isn’t the first time he’s felt the siren’s pull of another’s body, and the thought to resist it feels more distant than ever. He wants her. He wants her so bad that he just draws an audibly sharp breath, grip on the shallow doorframe tightening.

He finally swallows his breath and says:]

My apologies…

[He shuffles off again.]

[She stares at the closed door as she listens to him retreat. Something isn't right. She thinks back to the kitchen, wondering if she missed something obvious. No head wound. No bleeding. He seemed tired or spent, perhaps, but that's not unusual after hunting. Still, it calls for an end to her bath, and she pulls the stopper on the tub as she carefully gets out to dry herself off.

She steps out with her towel wrapped around her body just in case, heading over to her set of drawers to pull out a nightgown. She'll dress and go check on him, she thinks. Just to be sure nothing is wrong.]

[Every sense feels lit up, superhuman —— when he turns his head at the sound of her getting out of the water, he feels monstrous, bigger than he is. His control over Ifrit feels tenuous at best, and he paces his room, door open, wondering if he should just leave.

Go to her and fuck her right, says the beast, and Clive takes four steps back to the door.

She doesn’t want him.

He forces himself back to his bed, where he sits, the tent in his trousers perilously obvious.]

[Dressed, with her hair let down, Jill quietly pads over to Clive's room. The door is open, but Jill still hesitates in the hallway, knocking on the doorframe rather than poking her head in.]

Clive? Did you need something?

[He knows she’s there because he’s aware of her every other move, and he can practically smell her —- oils, lotions, wet skin, the warmth between her legs. He closes his eyes, briefly, but he can’t escape the thought of nestling his face between her thighs.

The lamp beside his temporary bed casts Ifrit’s shadow across the room, eyes leering.

He replies, voice low, huskier, a warning:]

I do. [How shameful, to have needs.] I don’t think I can bear how much I want you right now.

[The silence from the hallway is deafening. Jill stays where she is, out of sight, brows pinched together. He didn't just say what she thinks he said. He wouldn't.

But that tone...

No. He left her, and whatever desires are left between them are to be unspoken. That was their silent agreement.]

Did something happen tonight?

[Maybe she's misinterpreting this. Maybe he is hurt, and he just wants comfort. Still, she remains where she stands.]

[The whole city is experiencing a chemical spill into the water supply, and he knows it, but he doesn’t care. He’s on his feet suddenly, striding to the door, where he meets her and stops so close of her that his chest nearly brushes hers. Her nightgown is thin, thin enough that he thinks he can tear it from her. He doesn’t — just barely. His gaze is intense, focused. Ifrit looms on the wall behind him.

He ignores the question.]

I should stay elsewhere tonight. I can’t hold this back.

[Jill looks up at him and there's a flicker of realization. Oh. Oh. He did mean what she thought he meant, and this close, she can feel the heat radiating from his skin, warming hers where it cools from the bath.]

... what are you afraid might happen, Clive?

[Like she doesn't know. It doesn't send her retreating to he room.]

[When she doesn’t move, he does. It’s wrong —— he knows it’s wrong —- but it feels like enough permission to put a broad palm on her chest, just over her heart, and push her firmly against the wall. His head bent to her, the tip of his nose laid against the bridge of hers, he says:]

I’ll lay you in your bed if you don’t tell me to go right now.

[He hasn't touched her so boldly in months. He hasn't crowded her space like this in longer. It doesn't hurt, being pushed against the wall, but the air is knocked out of her lungs nonetheless.

She should tell him to go. This is a terrible idea, and it shouldn't even be a thing she entertains for a second. But the bitterly selfish part of her mind simply says why not? She's slept with others and it's meant nothing. She's sure he's slept with others, too. This can just be them, scratching an itch, and that's all.

And she's misses his body. Missed how strong and solid and warm he is, over her, inside her. He's so close she wants to tip her face upwards and claim his mouth for her own. But she doesn't. There can't be any question.

There's a sureness in her voice where there should at least be some doubt.]

Don't go.

[But don't blame me if you regret this in the morning. She tells herself she won't, because she has spent far too much time wallowing in her regrets here.]

[The hesitation has his heartbeat quickening, preparing himself for the go when he’s ready to slip a knee between her thighs just to rub against her, when he could grope every inch of her just to have her. The pressure of his body against hers increases as she considers it, and by time she says don’t, he’s ready to smother her with himself.

Instead, he just takes her face in his hands and kisses her with such desperate, needy force that he’d bully her back if she wasn’t already against the wall.]

[He's never kissed her like that. It's yet another surprise, but she melts into it, fingers digging into his sides as she returns the desperation with a hunger fueled by longing.

She hasn't kissed him in so long that it makes her dizzy, and she's grateful to be essentially trapped, upright.]

[Clive grinds his hips against hers, his cock a rock hard stripe against the thin fabric of her nightgown. It’s as second nature as his mouth working hers, hot and veering sloppy, both hands still clutching her cheeks. She does want him, and he can finally be sure of it, and that makes him free to do whatever he wants. He wedges his thigh between hers, lifting her right onto the balls of her feet so she has no choice but to grind on him.]

[When was he last so hard for her? Jill moans into his mouth, months of pent up longing making her feel ready to burst. He can take her against the wall as far as she's concerned--it wouldn't be the first time he had her like that.

There's nothing under her nightgown, and she's immediately frustrated with the fact that he's dressed as she drops a hand to feel him through his trousers. He wants her. If anything comes from this, at least it's that comfort: he did desire her, at least.]

[How divine, to feel her moan on his own breath, to feel her groping for him. For a moment longer he ruts against her with no sign of stopping and then he abruptly does, dropping his hands from her and turning his head away.

But distance doesn’t last long. He stoops to lock an arm around her thighs, and with a short grunt and a little boost, he slings her over his shoulder and marches her off to her room.]

[To be wanted is one thing. To be wanted by him is another beast entirely. Jill is breathless against him, wanting more and more herself, but when he releases her it feels like she'll drown.

But then she's being hoisted up, and she breathes out something amused. Her nightgown is short enough that it's ridden up in this position, exposing her. It's like some fantasy brought to life: Clive, unworried about somehow offending her, letting instinct win. Finally. She'll gladly let herself be manhandled by him to see what awaits.]

[His grip on her is firm, the arm around her thighs ending his with hand palming the meat of her bared ass. He moves as a man on a mission, striding into her room and right to the bed, where he lays her down on her back, splays her thighs with both hands, and stands between them. He looks down at her hungrily, and he’s all there, life and fondness and adoration behind his eyes. She’s his favourite, it’ll always be her. His Jill, his jewel, the love of his life.

He could live a thousand years and still want her.

Unblinking, eyes on here, he takes the hem of her nightdress between his hands, and pulls taut to tear it hem to neckline.]

Clive!

[Whatever poetic, flowery thoughts she had while looking up at the man she still loves desperately disappear as he tears her nightgown. Fortunately, his name is said with a laugh. She has other things to sleep in.]

Really?

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