I N B O X:

[totallytrustworthy]

"Chloe here--

seriously, I'm not, though. And you should probably stop falling for that. Leave a message."


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[alittlesweptup]

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.

[totallytrustworthy]

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."

[alittlesweptup]

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.

[totallytrustworthy]

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.

[alittlesweptup]

"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.

[totallytrustworthy]

"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.

[alittlesweptup]

"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.