02-05-2014, 05:41 PM
A brush against her arms and he stopped her. Animosity jerked cold throughout her body. What was the problem? Had he changed his mind? Had she grown too old? Too thin? Too fat? Or was it one of a hundred other reasons? Danger flashed across her eyes, but the shark that touched the surface soon delved deep once more. He drew her toward a chair, and pulled her on top.
She crested his legs, two mile-long stems wrapped on either side of his. The moment he brushed against her throat, she forgave him the transgression. Her eyes slid low, and her face tilted away.
He stroked nowhere unexplored before by other hands, but the thrill was not in being touched, kissed or cradled. It was being touched, kissed, and cradled by one of the world's greatest dangers excluding herself. He coaxed her into relaxation like a cat coaxed into trusting the hand that fed it.
He'd barely been able to contain himself before, a strange turn of events now. "You've grown patient in your old age,"
she teased maliciously and curled toward him to return the favor. Her hands trailed the contours of his stomach, chest and arms. They wrapped around his neck and trailed perfect nails through his hair. There were strands of silver mixed within his after all, but Spectra didn't mind. With age came experience and confidence. She'd known a higher profile of man these past four years than she ever hoped to entertain, but whether athletes, CEO's, politicians, or crime lords, they were all compared to one fine specimen at the height of her imagination. The quiet, eager part of her begged to be explored by someone who knew what they were doing, by someone who appreciated the rare jewel that landed in their lap, literally. Strange now, that she found herself comparing this version of Hood to the one she knew before. The younger version of him was wild and savage. He fed on lust and violence like a blood-thirsty, carnal animal. Whether it was patience or not, there was something distinctly different in him now. He'd grown more apathetic, like flesh and blood meant little in the grand scheme of the universe, yet at the same time, he was more free. What had happened to him to twist his insides so? A passing curiosity, but none so strong she'd stop to talk about it now.
She swung one long stem of a leg over her head like a cat twisting beneath a sun-soaked window and turned away in order to lay against his chest. Folds of hair scented with oils and coconut pressed against his cheek. The spike of one heel ran up and down his calf, leaving a red streak in its wake. He was trapped beneath her now. Her imprisonment of the world's reigning assassin lit sheer glee, triumphant ecstasy, and the rush of anticipation-realized upon her smile.
She didn't relinquish control easily, and when she did, it was not to just anyone. He likely did not need the help, but she was too eager despite herself and guided his hands until they were tangled in the lingerie. It was a stroke of trust show such vulnerability to a man, but he'd earned it the day he pulled her out of that cardboard box in Bogotá.
She crested his legs, two mile-long stems wrapped on either side of his. The moment he brushed against her throat, she forgave him the transgression. Her eyes slid low, and her face tilted away.
He stroked nowhere unexplored before by other hands, but the thrill was not in being touched, kissed or cradled. It was being touched, kissed, and cradled by one of the world's greatest dangers excluding herself. He coaxed her into relaxation like a cat coaxed into trusting the hand that fed it.
He'd barely been able to contain himself before, a strange turn of events now. "You've grown patient in your old age,"
she teased maliciously and curled toward him to return the favor. Her hands trailed the contours of his stomach, chest and arms. They wrapped around his neck and trailed perfect nails through his hair. There were strands of silver mixed within his after all, but Spectra didn't mind. With age came experience and confidence. She'd known a higher profile of man these past four years than she ever hoped to entertain, but whether athletes, CEO's, politicians, or crime lords, they were all compared to one fine specimen at the height of her imagination. The quiet, eager part of her begged to be explored by someone who knew what they were doing, by someone who appreciated the rare jewel that landed in their lap, literally. Strange now, that she found herself comparing this version of Hood to the one she knew before. The younger version of him was wild and savage. He fed on lust and violence like a blood-thirsty, carnal animal. Whether it was patience or not, there was something distinctly different in him now. He'd grown more apathetic, like flesh and blood meant little in the grand scheme of the universe, yet at the same time, he was more free. What had happened to him to twist his insides so? A passing curiosity, but none so strong she'd stop to talk about it now.
She swung one long stem of a leg over her head like a cat twisting beneath a sun-soaked window and turned away in order to lay against his chest. Folds of hair scented with oils and coconut pressed against his cheek. The spike of one heel ran up and down his calf, leaving a red streak in its wake. He was trapped beneath her now. Her imprisonment of the world's reigning assassin lit sheer glee, triumphant ecstasy, and the rush of anticipation-realized upon her smile.
She didn't relinquish control easily, and when she did, it was not to just anyone. He likely did not need the help, but she was too eager despite herself and guided his hands until they were tangled in the lingerie. It was a stroke of trust show such vulnerability to a man, but he'd earned it the day he pulled her out of that cardboard box in Bogotá.