languages // joel&andee; closed chat
andreya-roche:
It was old times again. It was meeting a stranger in the second bar of the crawl in the new town and abandoning her friends for a quickie in the bathroom. It was meeting someone in the afternoon and inviting them up to her hotel room at night. It was an old friend, lounging on the sofa in the hostel, under the warm light of a lazy Sunday afternoon, finally proposing that maybe it wasn’t such a crazy idea. But Joel wasn’t any of these things – he was a stranger who was a friend, an impulse and a thought, a good feeling inside what perhaps was a bad idea. For a moment she could forget they were in the dark, crumbs of broken walls and shattered windows crunching beneath their boots, evading the eyes of Elites and Reformists just to be together.
Her face rushed with heat at the feel of his hands, his forceful touch rivaled by the softness of his fingers against her skin.
‘Thought I’d carry you.’
Cripes, yes.
No room for a nod in between hungry kisses, she grabbed the back of his neck in a wordless, thankful want. Where his hands went high, caressing over the bridge of her shoulder, the swell of her ribs, her hands went low, around the taper of his waist to the small of his back to the width of his hips and into her body she pulled. A rhythmic, almost choreographed pattern of desire – how easily she was able to communicate her wants with her body; a flick of the wrist, a touch of the hand, a sigh in her throat. She kissed him in wanton earnest, completely immodest and unmistakable. She needed this.
Other stuff. The perfectly boyish phrase gave her a smile, and her hands explored the new bareness of his chest, shoulders, and back. So much for stagnancy, she thought.
His lips made a trail around her face, and she closed her eyes, drank it in. Moments of pause like this always surprised her – how they spoke of nothing but tenderness, of carefulness. Perhaps timidity. He was mindful in a moment of such urgency, something she rarely experienced when the time to complete the task was so short and the need so great. Andreya sank deep into his hold, for the first time only (and very) aware of each point of contact their bodies made, from noses to chests to hips to thighs. Arms wound around his torso and mouth breathing deep, she filled her lungs with the warm scent of his closeness.
Interrupting the thick, unbroken silence, her own voice startled her when heard herself say, “Whatever you want.”
She toed off her boots and kicked them to the side. The waistband of her pants, slack around her hips, fell in one motion down the length of her legs as she thumbed open the button. The music they’d fantasized in the bar still sounded in her ears, muted and hollow, as if downstairs – and she pretended again: they were in the apartment above the speakeasy, perhaps rented or they had just broken in, the warm New Orleans breeze coming through the open window, the smell of cigarettes, whiskey, and gumbo. A perfectly seductive way to forget where she was, and the reality of what they were doing.
“Whatever,” she whispered again, unclasping the front of his slacks and sending her palm down the front, lips hanging together as if by a drop of rain, “you want.”
God, there was something ridiculously erotic and adorable about her that he just couldn’t get over. Her half-dazed resting on him while she stepped out of her boots and pants, soft breaths, mature confidence that he could feel in her hands, hear in her voice. He slipped his fingers along her hips, past her panties and pushed downward until they also slipped free and tumbled past her slender legs to the floor, his hands now free to slip again beneath her buttocks, fingertips curling under and tickling her gently by her labia.
And then she’s palming him skin to skin and Joel can’t help but sigh, tracing a shallow fingernail up her slit and gripping her ass again to pull her closer to him, hips rocking up into her touch. He savors it for a few seconds, eyes glossing over, watching her face as he thickens against her palm. And it’s tempting to let her completely run loose, to let her take charge and spoil him how he hasn’t been spoiled in ages--but Joel decides the urge to be selfish is greater than even that desire. He presses a hand up against the one she has in his pants and with one last cant of his hips, takes her wrist and stares down at her eyes.
“Next time,” he says almost breathlessly. “Right now, I want to taste you.”
