[There's a long moment, then, when he just kind of looks at her, like he's processing the whole of what just unfolded here — from the laugh to the whim to the outstretched hand, the way he can't quite tell whether she's just humoring him as she'd been before or if she's actually getting on board with the idea of doing something raw and significant and personal.
Sometimes, the language of love is threats of third-party violence.]
That's more like it.
[He sets the scotch aside before taking her hand, unsurprised to find the palm hot and a little tacky from where it's been pressed against her glass and the bottle, but mostly just caught up on how easily the whole of his closes over hers. Holding her hand isn't like holding a gun. Her lack of grip would get her laughed out of a boardroom.
It's annoying to crane his neck to look at her, he thinks idly. It was less complicated when she was on the other side of the room, oriented more in front of him, so he could sit and drink and not have to fuss with finding a sideways angle that doesn't make him want to lean his head back and prop it on the bed like some sort of lackadaisical drunk. It's doubly so because she's already moved so she can stare openly at him if she wants, and that's just altogether unbalanced in a way he decides without really thinking much about it that he dislikes.]
Now stop staring at me.
[— he says, and drops her hand to grab her by the middle instead, hauling her over and atop his legs so that she's settled about halfway between his thigh and his knee. It's a bad idea he'll regret in about thirty seconds when her weight starts bearing down on the bone, but that's a problem to be dealt with thirty seconds from now, because at present it actually feels like a phenomenal idea — getting his hands on her, moving her like it's nothing, watching his own rumpled trousers get swallowed up in pink tulle.
He's supposed to take his hands off her, probably, when he's finished. Except that seems like a particularly stupid idea all of a sudden, and for the life of him he can't quite produce an explanation for why.]
no subject
Sometimes, the language of love is threats of third-party violence.]
That's more like it.
[He sets the scotch aside before taking her hand, unsurprised to find the palm hot and a little tacky from where it's been pressed against her glass and the bottle, but mostly just caught up on how easily the whole of his closes over hers. Holding her hand isn't like holding a gun. Her lack of grip would get her laughed out of a boardroom.
It's annoying to crane his neck to look at her, he thinks idly. It was less complicated when she was on the other side of the room, oriented more in front of him, so he could sit and drink and not have to fuss with finding a sideways angle that doesn't make him want to lean his head back and prop it on the bed like some sort of lackadaisical drunk. It's doubly so because she's already moved so she can stare openly at him if she wants, and that's just altogether unbalanced in a way he decides without really thinking much about it that he dislikes.]
Now stop staring at me.
[— he says, and drops her hand to grab her by the middle instead, hauling her over and atop his legs so that she's settled about halfway between his thigh and his knee. It's a bad idea he'll regret in about thirty seconds when her weight starts bearing down on the bone, but that's a problem to be dealt with thirty seconds from now, because at present it actually feels like a phenomenal idea — getting his hands on her, moving her like it's nothing, watching his own rumpled trousers get swallowed up in pink tulle.
He's supposed to take his hands off her, probably, when he's finished. Except that seems like a particularly stupid idea all of a sudden, and for the life of him he can't quite produce an explanation for why.]