Chapter Text
“…I’m entirely at your mercy.”
Your gaze dips to his lips, and a pang of longing kicks at your stomach.
“Though… if I don’t kiss you soon I think I might die,” you breathe with a shaky chuckle. “So let me have that at least? Let me kiss you? Please?”
Silco’s hand slides to the back of your neck, thumb blanketing your heavy pulse, fingers weaving through the hairs at your nape. And you think his mismatched eyes may reflect the same quiet desperation you feel, even if his voice is far steadier than yours.
“Since you ask so nicely.”
You tumble into him. And his lips are there to catch you. He kisses you deeply, intensely, agonisingly slowly, as though you’re a meal to be consumed in stages. And you too savour the mint-tobacco taste of him as you’re swept further out to sea by each rolling caress of his tongue, and each tidal surge of his mouth.
There’s no logic to the way in which he makes you feel both lost and found.
A tickle at your waist, the feel of the hem of your shirt being cautiously plucked from your waistband. You’re quick to offer encouragement, joining Silco in peeling the material away to reveal your best black lace bra – worn today specially for him –not that he seems capable of noting such details at present. Your mouths part only long enough for your shirt to be fully shucked and discarded, before his lips crash back to yours with an urgency that suggests even that briefest of respites was far too long. You’re inclined to agree.
You swing your legs across Silco’s lap so that you can reach your boot buckles and keep kissing him at the same time. (Let it never be said that your priorities aren’t straight). One boot thumps to the floor, followed several seconds later by the other, but in your attempt to re-tuck your foot beneath yourself you sacrifice your balance and pitch backwards onto the bed, dragging Silco down with you. Or rather, on top of you, given that your mouths are firmly fused. He adjusts quickly, those narrow hips of his slotting readily between your thighs, his weight braced on a single forearm, leaving one long-fingered hand free to grasp at your bare waist. You shimmy blindly up the blankets together, tongues knotted so thoroughly that only a veteran sailor might stand a chance at prising you apart, and you dig your fingers into his whip-lean arms once you detect the telltale sink of feathered pillows to stop him from pinning you against the headboard: Something to save for another night, perhaps.
Skinny he may be, but the feel of Silco’s weight atop you is just as intoxicating as it was the first time upon his office sofa. More so, now that there are no narrow seat cushions or rigid backrests to restrict your movements. You’re free to wind your arms around his shoulders. To card your fingers through dark, shorn hair. Free to nudge at his pert little backside with your knee to encourage him to sink fully into the cradle of your thighs – which he does – with a small, kiss-muffled whine when his clothed erection drags against your trousered buttock. The sound drives you mad. Silco drives you mad. And you’re once again struck with the realisation that this – this messy, slightly unpractised, horizontal teenage make-out session – this is enough. Even if this is as far as the two of you go this evening, you’ll end the night happy and satisfied.
Though his hips press against you with enough insistence to strongly imply that he has a plan he intends to see through.
Silco’s mouth – greedy, verging on ravenous – slides beneath your jaw and begins to make a meal of your neck. Sharp nose poised against your thrumming artery like a bandit’s knife as he laps and sucks at your skin. Each nip of his chipped teeth drawing soft little gasps and hiccups of want from your lips and sending your head tipping ever further back.
Your bra strap slips from your shoulder beneath the pawing drag of Silco’s hand, alerting him to the existence of the black-laced barrier. Your back arches, coaxed by a particularly heated kiss to your throat, but also by the broad palm which slides beneath you, following the column of your spine until those long, exploratory fingers locate the clasp and tug.
And tug.
And tug.
Silco detaches from your neck with a wet pop and a nettled growl, and glares angrily at your breasts.
You lift your chest higher to give him more space to work, but he only continues to struggle, becoming increasingly irate the longer he battles the undergarment.
“S’hook-and-eye–” you pant, as he begins outright clawing at the clasp, “You’ve kinda gotta— Pinch it either side—”
Chipped teeth bare in a furious snarl, and Silco's hand rips out from underneath you and plunges instead beneath the pillow beside your head. You receive no warning, save for a flash of silver in your periphery, before a shard frigid metal whistles harmlessly across your sternum faster than your brain can comprehend.
Your bra bursts open; severed clean between the cups by the small knife in Silco’s hand. You gawp up at him, wide-eyed and bare-breasted.
“That’s cheating.”
“That’s innovation.”
The blade whistles away through the air, burying deep into the wood of the bedroom door with a loud thwang and leaving Silco’s hands free to eagerly divest you of the remaining scraps of lace.
“Do you have any idea how expensive bras are?!”
“I’ll buy you a new one,” he insists gruffly, more concerned with flinging the ruined garment away and pausing to devour the sight beneath him with pitch dark eyes.
His gaze drags over your throat, damp from his attentions and no doubt embellished with amethyst bruises. Then down, beneath those bitten jewels to the swell of your breasts, lifting with each of your heavy breaths and crowned with lust-peaked nipples.
You can almost hear the cogs inside Silco’s head grind to a halt.
You look like you’ve never seen a pair of tits before.
Before – on his sofa – you’d meant the comment as a joke, a means to break the tension. In hindsight, you know that you’d inadvertently spoken the truth. Which is why this time you keep your damned mouth shut, and allow him as much time as he pleases to oogle.
Your working nights are never short of lust-fuelled glances and low-spoken invitations from club punters promising you a night you’ll never forget. But here, under Silco’s mute, awestruck gaze, it strikes you that you’ve never before felt so... desirable. Granted, you do have a moderately pretty pair, but you know far better than Silco what’s on offer out there; tits of all shapes and sizes; a veritable banquet of breasts. For now you’re his only point of reference, but from here on out it’s entirely possible that you’ll simply be the first in a line of lovers, and before long the memory of your tits will fade into obscurity. That thought makes you feel sick. And you begin to feel vulnerable. Too vulnerable.
You reach for his neck-tie, fumbling fingers hooking into the cream knot—
In a flash, both your wrists are pinned hard to the pillows beside your head, Silco’s arms two crimson bars caging you in and directing your gaze toward a face taut with displeasure. A thrill of danger shoots up your spine like a flare and stokes the heat in your belly. You’ve always enjoyed toeing the line when it comes to Silco. And his ire is far easier to face than your own lapse in confidence.
“What are you doing?” he growls through kiss-bitten lips.
“Tit for tat, Silco, sweetie,” you purr, summoning your easy bravado and glancing down at your bare breasts. “Literally.”
“I’m supposed to be the one touching you.”
“And you need your clothes on to do that?”
“Do I need them off?”
There’s a bite to his words that brings to mind the image of a cornered dog, snapping its jaws to divert attention away from the anxious white crescents at the edges of its eyes. You soften, dropping all flirtation in favour of sincerity.
“No,” you assure with a small shake of your head. “You don’t have to do a single thing you don’t want to.”
His eyes drill into you with staggering force. But it doesn’t deter you from curling your fingers to trace light, calming shapes upon the hands which band your wrists.
“I just want you to be comfortable, sweetie,” you say gently, earnestly.
He rolls his jaw. Dual-gaze cutting across your features in turn. And then he’s gone, leaving you staring up at the ceiling. You prop yourself on your elbows to find that he hasn’t gone far – he kneels between your legs, eyeing you warily. There’s a reluctant beat, then his fingers rise to his tie, freeing the knot with practised tugs before discarding it over the side of the bed.
Something in you loosens along with the cream silk, and you offer a soft, genuine smile to accompany your praise, “There. Not so bad, huh? Handsome?”
He blinks. And a little of his defensiveness shakes free like desert sand from a camel’s coat.
He acquiesces with a clipped grunt, and appears to deliberate silently for a few moments more. Cautiously, his fingers rise to the golden clasps of his waistcoat, pausing a split second before thumbing them open. Your smile broadens as the gilded vest slides from his shoulders and joins his tie on the floor, and broadens further still when he proceeds to undo the top few buttons of his maroon shirt, exposing his slender throat and a scant peek of clavicle. He goes no further. You neither comment nor push for more.
The mattress creaks under Silco’s shifting weight as he shuffles closer into the space between your legs and settles back on his heels, his thighs slotting neatly in the gap beneath yours to bracket your hips. You follow his gaze down to what little distance remains between you. Mere inches, thanks to the dense strain at the front of his pants. Maybe it’s your hormone-addled imagination, but you swear you can feel the heat of him radiating through the dark fabric. Or maybe it’s just the intensity of the two-toned gaze trained unwaveringly upon your clothed sex.
Silco’s hands alight on your knees and smooth slowly northward, thumbs following the inside seam of your trousers and sending a shiver of sweet anticipation skittering up your spine. He pauses midway, expression pinching momentarily, then retraces his journey back down toward your knees. Palms smooth up your thighs. Palms smooth down. Smooth up. Down. With each repetition he travels a little closer to the crux of your thighs. But with each repeat his lips also pull a little thinner, and his brows knit a little tighter. But Janna there is so much want there, in the dark, starving depths of his eyes. An abundance of desire, shackled by fetters of uncertainty.
He hesitates yet again, so close to the tops of your thighs now that it clearly pains him – battling the invisible pull of whatever is stopping him so hard that his hands tremble almost imperceptibly.
“Take your time,” you breathe, a thread of allure woven within the gentle reassurance. “There’s no rush. I’m all yours to explore. To enjoy.”
His throat drags in a dry swallow, and his gaze hauls upwards to meet yours.
“I want this to be about your enjoyment,” Silco insists quietly, coarse with lust-driven grit, “You’ve been… very patient with me. I want to make you feel good.”
“You already are.”
“As good as you made me feel.”
“You do.”
“You know what I mean.”
You flinch at the sudden snap of anger, a flash in the pan, there and gone. He turns his face briefly away, features tight with frustration, perhaps even a touch of guilt. You remain silent and still, forgetting for a moment how to breathe, until he finally meets your eye again with a long, heavy exhale that must empty his lungs entirely. The scar on his lip shifts as he makes to speak, but his jaw is set so tightly that his strained words barely manage to squeeze through.
“...I want to make you— I want you to…”
Either he’s unable or unwilling to say it. So you finish for him.
“...Orgasm.”
He averts his gaze, but confirms with a terse, if sheepish, nod.
Your teeth prick your lower lip, blood oozing molten through your veins and heating your skin to such a degree that even the cool stir of the bedroom air alone is enough to taunt your sensitive, as yet untouched nipples.
“You already almost did, you know?”
Silco casts a skeptical glance down at your crotch.
“Not tonight, yet,” you clarify with a chuckle, “I mean the other day, on the sofa, when you were grinding against me... I would’ve come if I hadn’t made you stop.”
He makes a small noise of inquiry at the back of his throat.
“Mhm,” you confirm. “And you weren’t even trying for the big O then. I’d say that bodes well for tonight, wouldn’t you?”
He meets your gaze then. And the corner of your mouth tugs up into a slow smirk at the unmistakable flicker of confidence in the flames of his devil’s eye.
“So…” you continue, voice a low, sensual purr, “It should please you to know that there are several methods of achieving what you seek. Did you have a particular one in mind?”
A low hum rumbles in the depths of Silco’s chest like an engine, powering the reanimation of his fingers which begin to steadily massage the clothed meat of your thighs.
“I want to touch you,” he murmurs, dark and rough as uncut onyx. “I want you to teach me how.”
What teaching method do you choose?
~ Demonstration: Touch yourself for him ~
~ Instruction: Talk him through it ~
~ Interactive: Guide his hand with yours ~
Cast your vote here (Link to Tumblr poll)