( and is that the problem, in the end? it doesn't feel like she's taking advantage of anything except their proximity, when her fingers lift, teasing buttons out of their holes; it doesn't feel like he's afforded her some kind of overextended kindness, when the steady beat of his heart, beneath his shirt, feels just as bared as the fabric that's starting to slip apart with her movements. had he always just been afraid of the same thing? that no one would willingly walk into some kind of agreement, like this, without some measure of pity, kindness, some kind of burden that would fall onto their shoulders? he can't read the expression as well in her face, when she's touching him; mostly that's because he feels thoroughly distracted by the heat that's threatening to pool up into his face at the thought.
the step backwards, and the next, feels like they're tethered together; his fingers flex, squeezing at her waist, and if she's guiding him back towards the bed, he doesn't mind it. doesn't feel like he's on the offensive, but rather, more at her mercy. )
Would it help... ( he starts, then thinks against it---rather than leave his touch at her waist, both of his hands lift, a calloused shadow over the back of her hands; his fingers run over hers, sliding down her knuckles, gripping in at her wrists if only so that he can use the guidance to start encouraging her to pull his shirt tails out of the waist of his slacks. ) ...to tell you that you're pretty?
( no, that sounds juvenile. another embarrassed breath goes through his nose, irritated at himself. )
You're not unattractive. ( that's even worse. he continues. ) You're very attractive. I'm sure you've heard this before.
( his grip loosens; his hands slide, a brief touch along her upper arms before he drops away, leaving the rest of his shirt at her mercy. )
So it isn't 'taking advantage'. ( it feels--a little stupid, saying all this, but it's not going to change anything; it's not like it's some kind of weakness to admit it, or maybe it is, but he's willing to take the loss if it comes to it. ) I'm interested.
no subject
the step backwards, and the next, feels like they're tethered together; his fingers flex, squeezing at her waist, and if she's guiding him back towards the bed, he doesn't mind it. doesn't feel like he's on the offensive, but rather, more at her mercy. )
Would it help... ( he starts, then thinks against it---rather than leave his touch at her waist, both of his hands lift, a calloused shadow over the back of her hands; his fingers run over hers, sliding down her knuckles, gripping in at her wrists if only so that he can use the guidance to start encouraging her to pull his shirt tails out of the waist of his slacks. ) ...to tell you that you're pretty?
( no, that sounds juvenile. another embarrassed breath goes through his nose, irritated at himself. )
You're not unattractive. ( that's even worse. he continues. ) You're very attractive. I'm sure you've heard this before.
( his grip loosens; his hands slide, a brief touch along her upper arms before he drops away, leaving the rest of his shirt at her mercy. )
So it isn't 'taking advantage'. ( it feels--a little stupid, saying all this, but it's not going to change anything; it's not like it's some kind of weakness to admit it, or maybe it is, but he's willing to take the loss if it comes to it. ) I'm interested.