[ She stifles a laugh while she clears off the table with a sweep of her arm, tapping her fingers along her lips. This is getting more fun the more disgruntled the other woman becomes, she can't lie. Plus, she's had luck on her side tonight with these dice rolls; it's hard to stop playing when you feel like you're having a good night at the casino. ]
"Get it over with?" Not very sportsmanship like...
[ Her words are wispy, the teasing nature of her voice more natural than put upon. If it's getting it over with she wants, though, she's happy to oblige. One of her hands reaches out to brace against the other woman's collarbone, flexing her fingers so that her sharp, elongated nails dig into the pale, freckled flesh there. From there, it's easy enough to hoist herself up onto the other woman's body — Coquelic is lithe and graceful, easily slotting herself right up against her torso. She settles her weight there on her stomach for a short moment, maybe to take a breather, or maybe to luxuriate in the feeling of sitting on top of someone — someone who's frustrated and embarrassed at that. ]
At least you've got a cute bra. [ With her free hand, she runs a nail along the lace of the cup, before lifting her hips and resting her weight on the swell of her breast. ] Almost looks a little small for you.
[ And with that to the side comment about Ishmael's not so washboard chest, she grinds her hips forward deliberately and shamelessly, a smirk barely present on her lips while she stares down at the other woman, eyes alight with mischief. ]
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"Get it over with?" Not very sportsmanship like...
[ Her words are wispy, the teasing nature of her voice more natural than put upon. If it's getting it over with she wants, though, she's happy to oblige. One of her hands reaches out to brace against the other woman's collarbone, flexing her fingers so that her sharp, elongated nails dig into the pale, freckled flesh there. From there, it's easy enough to hoist herself up onto the other woman's body — Coquelic is lithe and graceful, easily slotting herself right up against her torso. She settles her weight there on her stomach for a short moment, maybe to take a breather, or maybe to luxuriate in the feeling of sitting on top of someone — someone who's frustrated and embarrassed at that. ]
At least you've got a cute bra. [ With her free hand, she runs a nail along the lace of the cup, before lifting her hips and resting her weight on the swell of her breast. ] Almost looks a little small for you.
[ And with that to the side comment about Ishmael's not so washboard chest, she grinds her hips forward deliberately and shamelessly, a smirk barely present on her lips while she stares down at the other woman, eyes alight with mischief. ]