totallytrustworthy | I N B O X:

Okay, not fair. Not really unfair either, but that's neither here nor there when he's done most of the heavy lifting thus far (and seriously, it's been one bloody hell of a dry spell so she's not exactly against the idea of sitting pretty for round one). She arches up into his grip, into the path of his thumb, the heat of his mouth and that dull, urgent pressure.

And then draws back with her fingers dug in under his jaw, pressing back in a bid to try and force him-- mildly-- into the back of the futon behind him at a steep angle rather than letting him stay upright for what's next.

Sorry, Charlie.

He's biddable enough - usually is under the press of her fingers -, and lets himself be pushed back, the line of his shoulders heavy against the (mostly) upright futon at his back. Though it doesn't stop him from shifting his hand down, touching Chloe where she's hot between her legs. And while he can't keep her shirt rucked up at this angle, other hand slipping down to the flat line of her stomach, he tugs on the hem in an explicit display of how much he dislikes the bloody fabric there - a brief irritant that doesn't do much to knock the smug look off his face, all half grin with an edge of teeth as he settles in.

Sorry's got nothing to do with it, honestly.

"I should probably be off," he says, cheerful as he works her over with the callused pad of his thumb.

She catches him then, careful grip finding its way to the broad center of his palm as she pulls those thoughtful, considerate strokes away until contact's broken entirely. Sets her tongue against her incisor in a sharp, slanted smile. "Uh-uh."

They've met, they've touched, they've fucked on her countertop: this time around with all the initial need worked out of their systems, Chloe's not content to let urge-- or more specifically his-- dictate the course of what comes next. "Hands down, mouth off unless I say so, sweetheart."

Edited 2014-07-21 02:48 (UTC)

He lets her get as far as pushing his hands away, even listens to her lists of demands and-- and then Charlie quirks an eyebrow, mouth pulling at the corner: "What," ('Wot') "Are you serious?" These hands were made for touching, Chloe Frazer. That's a bit rude of you to deny him a basic human right.

Those hands were made for a lot more than-- okay, no they really were made for touching.

Still, it's all a bit absurd: she's about two hundred percent too hard to sound like anything even closely resembling a threat-- but then again it's Charlie, and delicate as he is underneath those woven layers of muscle, he's soft as a bloody lamb.

"Oh yeah. Definitely." Chloe huffs, tugging away her loose, slinky little shirt and tossing it off to one side as her fingers latch onto the waistband of his trousers yet again. Tugs once, twice, third's a charm and she's got them just an inch or so past the high curve of his ass. "Didn't I tell you? I got a new job as a dominatrix while you were gone."

He snorts, (mostly) good humor as she tugs his jeans down. For god's sake, Chloe, just undo the bloody fly and be done with it. "Really." And then a beat where he reconsiders the idea - fixes her with a slightly more serious sidelong glance: "Really?"

But right. Not touching. Very carefully not touching: his hands are, in fact, neatly tucked just under his own thighs - to keep from being tempted, of course.

As if chaffing's not more fun.

"Well I had to pay the bills somehow, didn't I?" Chloe ducks her chin down so that the jagged edge of her dark hair obscures enough of her profile to mask the grin she's currently struggling to suppress, flicking open the button of his trousers.

It's as much assistance as he gets before she's back to tugging, letting the zipper undo itself naturally.

Edited 2014-07-23 06:04 (UTC)

"Uh huh," which is all drawn out, going from momentarily ready to believe some fragment of this story to stonewall certainty that she's pulling his leg. "Well in that case, you had better get to it."

The zipper drags itself open by merit of leverage - honestly, he's nowhere near hard, though the line of her stomach drawn up between her breasts isn't a bad view by any estimation. And there's a kind of satisfaction to be won in letting her do whatever it is she likes; she'll just have to do better than telling him to keep his hands off and peeling his jeans down is all.

"See, that's the problem, though--" Her teeth find the high point of his thigh before he has the opportunity to protest. "Never have the equipment on hand when I need it."

Short hair, scarred-up skin, the dull lights of the edge of the city (sheet paneling and rafters for maintenance staring back at them through the glossy reflection of her windows) it's foreign. All of it.

They're more strangers in a strange place at this point in time than they've ever been between jobs back home-- or they ought to be, at least. Because Chloe doesn't see it. Doesn't feel anything but the familiar warmth of his skin or the way he breathes out low little sounds when she finds the right spots. This could be Rio, or Prague or some dingy little hotel in Nevada.

This could be anywhere and it'd still feel like home.

"What, you mean you haven't got a sexy dungeon or something in this place? I'm surprised - what with it being so roomy and all." Which, though it maybe goes without saying, is all chipper sarcasm despite the catch of her teeth at his skin.

There's no real introspection to it - any of it. He's sitting back on a futon while she slides down between his knees and it's difficult to be touchy feel-y about much of anything when he's got his own hands pinned to keep from chasing after her, from catching his fingers in the short scruff of her hack job haircut.

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