17 for Jean-Samuel and Julia please
Argh I miss them so much!
I’m doing Christmas prompts<3
Julia, in nothing but a fur-lined silk dressing gown, mounted her husband the way she always did: with great enthusiasm.
She had long ago abandoned the notion that she might ever attempt to straddle his lap in full. Instead, she draped one thigh over one of his and allowed the wide, heavy, singular limb to be her seat. She draped herself over his front and wiggled into place, which made the rest of him quake like gossamer flower petals shivering in winter’s first breeze.
He had been warming himself by the hearth in their Paris bedroom. Stripped down to his nightshirt, he had spread his thighs to allow heat to caress every abundant inch of him, only to begin to doze while lazily feeding himself from the plate of leftover biscuits he’d brought up after their evening guests had gone home.
He had been faster to undress than Julia, who luxuriated in a warm bath with bergamot oil before her evening drew her back to him.
“Minette,” Jean-Samuel murmured in greeting. His eyes, already half-lidded, landed wantingly on the tease of bosom beneath where her dressing gown was closed. Motivated, he reached for her: one hand squeezed the round flare of her hip; the other curled to catch her dressing gown and draw it along her collarbone, hot fingers following warm, bluntly cut fur while he drew it down her shoulder.
His head bent, and he pressed a sucking kiss upon the rise of her breast. “You smell expensive.”
She giggled, threading both hands through where his hair curled at his nape. “The perfumer thanks you for your business.”
Jean-Samuel chuckled, but instead of replying with something so useless as words, he dragged his tongue over the pink tip near his mouth. Julia made a low noise, back arching; Jean-Samuel sucked her into his mouth, swallowing in time with the fire’s crackle behind her so she could feel each gentle, wanting pull flicker through her.
“Oh,” she gasped, slowly, “yes. Your mouth…”
Again, he did not reply with words, but his hand grazed down her front to where auburn curls waited, damp in two ways and fragrant with both citrus and sex. He squeezed her hip, tugging her forward; his whole body responded, fat welcoming her with greater warmth than any fire or fur could ever match. Her hands flew down to the roll along his ribs and squeezed him so hard he moaned, and the sound reached down to chase his fingers’ slow, stroking, familiar entrance.