"Please." Her voice was soft, a hair’s breadth above a whisper.
He tilted his head to one side. The same side he always tilted it when he was teasing her. “Hmm?”
She frowned. Pouted a little, just enough that it was instinctual, the rest hidden behind a thin veneer of self control. It had never been her strong suit, but she didn’t want him to know that he was getting to her. That would just encourage him, and she was after the complete opposite. She took a breath.
"A little harder. Please."
His fingers paused, fingers dappling on the skin of her leg with all the weight of sunlight, and just as much gentle warmth. He glanced from her leg to her face, and then back down again. A small smile grew from the corners of his eyes down to the edges of his mouth. Eugh. He was a monster.
The fingers started to move again, fingertips tapping out a staccato rhythm that was just not enough staccato, not enough the beat of the drum and too much the fingering of a woodwind instrument. A saxophone, maybe. No, clarinet. This was delicate jazz. She wanted orchestra, bombast, Wagner. She wanted him to play Ride of the Valkyries on her rear, and instead here he was mucking about on her calf like Jethro Tull on a quiet number.
She licked her lips. No, wetted, her tongue sliding out just enough to make them glisten, her eyes still ever so fixed on his face. A breath was taken. And then another, and she squirmed until he had to pause, or lose his positioning.
"This isn’t fair, you know." She placed it on the silence, for him to look at, listen to, if he liked.
"And what is that?" He sounded inflated with self satisfaction, the discoverer of the ultimate entertainment.
"Treating me nicely when you know I don’t want to be treated as such. It’s cruel and unusual."
"You don’t think it’s the opposite?" He paused for a moment, let the question breathe. "That treating you as such is in fact, treating you badly? And isn’t that what you were after."
Her eyes flared, she wanted to hit him. Not in the face, just the shoulder, or the arm. Cause him a little bit of bodily harm, just enough to let him know her frustration.
"No, that’s not how it works. It’s the action, not the intent." Huh. That wasn’t right either. It was both, one working with the other, and having this weird half life, where one was present and the other notable by its absence, was making her feel unbalanced, all full and empty at the same time. "Gah! You know what I mean. Just stoooop!"
He did. His hand collapsed onto her leg, heavy palm against smooth skin, and for a moment it almost felt like he was going to concede, give her what she wanted and let her feel whole again. But instead he just sat like that, one hand clasped around her leg and the other resting in his lap. His eyes on hers, the muddy green blending with the black of his pupils, making it seem as though they swirled, a swamp that she was having to wade through. Only she had no idea how to get out.
They sat like that for a long time. Not long enough for the light to change outside, or even for them to be interrupted by a phone call, or the rumble of their stomachs. The moment held, for as long as it was able, for as long as two people can hold a moment without a thought, or some extrinsic interruption, can take it away from them.
And then it passed, just like that. He squeezed her leg, reaching down and sliding the other hand over her cheek, the back of his knuckles feeling comfortingly strong, hard. Then he was there, against her face, stubble and smiles and lips, all hard and happy. Halfway through the kiss she felt him grasp at her chest through her top, find the excited stiffness of her nipple, and give it a sharp pinch.
She squealed, but she couldn’t help but grin.