[Even now she's light on her feet, following his guidance to that low settee with all the docility of a lamb.]
Of course. We will be happy to help you recollect them.
[And that is an easy, wolfish grin that Cathaway adopts as she takes a seat. Her fingers wrap around the shape of his hand and she gives it a small tug of encouragement - pats the cushion beside her.]
That is very kind of you- [the words- and the tone- are very demure, practically, eyes cast low and without challenge, but there's a smile couched in the corners of his mouth, faint but notable. It turns sly when his eyes do slide up to meet hers, following the tug of her hand like the tug of her mind.
He starts with a knee to the low cushion, not yet sitting. It gives him the height, which is about the only bit of advantage he was likely to have. He raises her hand to his lips again, placing a last kiss to the back of her knuckles before freeing her. It is surprisingly bold- and frank- when he uses the same hand to push back into the silken strands of her sheet of silver hair.]
[If she grins, there's a trace of wolfishness in it.]
We have lots of practice.
[And she has been waiting for him to be sensible. She tips her face up faintly toward him given the sweep of his hand pushing back the pin straight curtain of her hair. It's a languid angle, her mouth all easy and her pale eyes heavy, but she makes no move to wind him tighter to her. Her hands are idle and there's a stability to the slope of her angled shoulders that suggests she has no interest in goading him.
Not physically anyway. Let him decide what to do with his hands, where to place his knee and weight, how she's to be managed by him. It's only fair to let him have the physicality of this if the shape of her mind is shifting up against the link between them: spreading open like ink blooming through a water wash.]
[She makes it difficult to focus- even on the sharp line of her jaw or the clever quirk of her lips or the shell of her ear at his thumb. She insinuates herself into his mind without hesitation and he has managed, through this time, to curtail whatever instinctual flinching urge he may have had to keep her out. She knew- everything. It could hardly matter anymore. There's something of a relief in that, and something more than a relief in the way her thoughts twist into his- difficult to tell if that edge of satisfaction is hers or his.
Still- focus. His fingers- momentarily stilled-shift again, carding back to the back of her head, tugging lightly on the loose fist of her hair, the revealed line of her neck- slender still. He doesn't quite- kiss her. It seems- well. He is still absorbing. Her thoughts. Her. The closeness, the echoed aroma of tea. But he does press in close, set his brow- the deep carved furrow between them- to the papery soft skin of her own, the bridge of her nose against the side of her face- the high press of her cheek, until their minds are nearly as close as they- already were, until he can feel her breath, warmer than the rest of her.]
I suppose I have given you ample opportunity. [It's a low, murmuring statement, or perhaps it isn't- perhaps his mouth doesn't move at all. It is difficult to tell.]
[There's no denying it. Her response is a coin turned from one side to the other - a flicker of amusement lint sunlight glinting off the surface of sun warmed water. Yes. He has. But suppose there has been some pleasure in that as well, some joy to be derived in how he has tested her. If he wasn't so bullheaded, so intransigent, would she still be so sharply aware of this place? Would the way his mind and breath mingles with her own now feel so particular, so earned? There's something satisfactory in holding out her hand in expectation and being rewarded for it. Is this a reward for good or bad behavior? Does it really matter?
Will he make her wait so long before he kisses her? It's such a clear, crystal sentiment in the murmur of the rest - curling thoughts of his weight and the strands of her silver hair in his sturdy hand, of how she knows he will taste and the thrum of intent low in her belly - that it separates itself from the miasma without difficulty. She breathes across his mouth, heavy. This close, he might as well be her - she might as well be him.]
This close, with the tide carrying him deep, deeper than he had allowed in a long time-possibly ever, rising up over his head until he is submerged, they are separated by only the barest degree. She might as well be him. He might as well be her. Not quite. He still knows the difference between his hands and hers, even if their breath seems indistinguishable. That could- change, but for now he is content with her filling the gaps between his own thoughts.
Well- not entirely content- no more than she is. Patient- yes, but maybe he was waiting for her to be a little less.]
-of course not-
[There was a fine line between anticipation and delay that he has no intention of crossing. His hand in her hair barely moves- the slightest increase of pressure with his two smallest fingers and he tips his chin. It does not take much to bring his lips to hers, to brave that deceptively narrow distance, and-
And the universe does not shift. There is no shaking beneath his feet or crack as it all comes tumbling down around them. There is her mouth- thinner than he remembers, but it would be. A memory of another time, the feeling of stray strands of her hair catching against his jaw and chin- bare and smooth. There is her breath, hot and near- and her pulse, in his chest and in hers, as many things the same as are different. Maybe not quite so many. He can't remember if he'd had the courage then to bring his other hand up, to hold her steady even as he parts his lips and kisses into her mouth with far more confidence then he knows he'd had then.]
hi pan/lily/whoever else is tracking this u creeps
[Her lips are just lips, her tongue just tongue, the silvering strands of her fine hair under his sure fingers just keratin and dead skin cells. There's no secret of the universe in her mouth or how she opens it to him, to the line of her body as her shoulder gives.
--Or there is and it only sits behind the shape and heat of her mouth, warranting some deeper more intimate contact than a kiss or skin or anything bodies can give or do. Regardless: he kisses her and she kisses him and it's very simple. As easy to do as finding the silken sash wrapped at his middle with her hands. She shouldn't know how to untie the complex knot at his hip, but she does because it belongs to him.
[It is so easy that it was almost frustrating- or would be, if he was thinking of the past. He wasn't, though, too taken up in the physicality of her, an aspect that had almost seemed lost. But then, what was the difference between her growing distance and his ever stronger, more rigid control?
Certainly nothing right now, except perhaps that her hands were already wandering along with her mind, the exact direction each end of silk wrapped to complete the knot- and the knowledge that she had to go looking in the first place. Ridiculous- a huff of laughter at the edge of her mouth. She would have to forgive him, again, he hadn't considered the potential for added difficulty. He was not so presumptuous to imagine this inevitability- or perhaps it was simply that he was more vain than imaginative. He had certainly chosen every piece of the outfit with an eye towards something, and it was not the ease in which it could be shed. Another bit of structure to make him feel as if he had any control at all.
He didn't have to search her mind for the place her chains could begin to be unwound. he knew the drape of them, the way they fell, the ringing where they touched her hip and how it different from the chime at her wrist- the individual pieces, at least some of their meanings. He doesn't need to steady her. She is steady, so his right hand is free to run along the lower edge of one of the endless strings of silvery links, smoothly sliding across calluses that had a lifetime to develop. His fingers find the small hidden clasp at the same time his mouth finds a spot to come to rest, just under the curve of her jaw.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Of course. We will be happy to help you recollect them.
[And that is an easy, wolfish grin that Cathaway adopts as she takes a seat. Her fingers wrap around the shape of his hand and she gives it a small tug of encouragement - pats the cushion beside her.]
no subject
He starts with a knee to the low cushion, not yet sitting. It gives him the height, which is about the only bit of advantage he was likely to have. He raises her hand to his lips again, placing a last kiss to the back of her knuckles before freeing her. It is surprisingly bold- and frank- when he uses the same hand to push back into the silken strands of her sheet of silver hair.]
I appreciate your patience.
no subject
We have lots of practice.
[And she has been waiting for him to be sensible. She tips her face up faintly toward him given the sweep of his hand pushing back the pin straight curtain of her hair. It's a languid angle, her mouth all easy and her pale eyes heavy, but she makes no move to wind him tighter to her. Her hands are idle and there's a stability to the slope of her angled shoulders that suggests she has no interest in goading him.
Not physically anyway. Let him decide what to do with his hands, where to place his knee and weight, how she's to be managed by him. It's only fair to let him have the physicality of this if the shape of her mind is shifting up against the link between them: spreading open like ink blooming through a water wash.]
no subject
Still- focus. His fingers- momentarily stilled-shift again, carding back to the back of her head, tugging lightly on the loose fist of her hair, the revealed line of her neck- slender still. He doesn't quite- kiss her. It seems- well. He is still absorbing. Her thoughts. Her. The closeness, the echoed aroma of tea. But he does press in close, set his brow- the deep carved furrow between them- to the papery soft skin of her own, the bridge of her nose against the side of her face- the high press of her cheek, until their minds are nearly as close as they- already were, until he can feel her breath, warmer than the rest of her.]
I suppose I have given you ample opportunity. [It's a low, murmuring statement, or perhaps it isn't- perhaps his mouth doesn't move at all. It is difficult to tell.]
no subject
Will he make her wait so long before he kisses her? It's such a clear, crystal sentiment in the murmur of the rest - curling thoughts of his weight and the strands of her silver hair in his sturdy hand, of how she knows he will taste and the thrum of intent low in her belly - that it separates itself from the miasma without difficulty. She breathes across his mouth, heavy. This close, he might as well be her - she might as well be him.]
no subject
This close, with the tide carrying him deep, deeper than he had allowed in a long time-possibly ever, rising up over his head until he is submerged, they are separated by only the barest degree. She might as well be him. He might as well be her. Not quite. He still knows the difference between his hands and hers, even if their breath seems indistinguishable. That could- change, but for now he is content with her filling the gaps between his own thoughts.
Well- not entirely content- no more than she is. Patient- yes, but maybe he was waiting for her to be a little less.]
-of course not-
[There was a fine line between anticipation and delay that he has no intention of crossing. His hand in her hair barely moves- the slightest increase of pressure with his two smallest fingers and he tips his chin. It does not take much to bring his lips to hers, to brave that deceptively narrow distance, and-
And the universe does not shift. There is no shaking beneath his feet or crack as it all comes tumbling down around them. There is her mouth- thinner than he remembers, but it would be. A memory of another time, the feeling of stray strands of her hair catching against his jaw and chin- bare and smooth. There is her breath, hot and near- and her pulse, in his chest and in hers, as many things the same as are different. Maybe not quite so many. He can't remember if he'd had the courage then to bring his other hand up, to hold her steady even as he parts his lips and kisses into her mouth with far more confidence then he knows he'd had then.]
hi pan/lily/whoever else is tracking this u creeps
--Or there is and it only sits behind the shape and heat of her mouth, warranting some deeper more intimate contact than a kiss or skin or anything bodies can give or do.
Regardless: he kisses her and she kisses him and it's very simple. As easy to do as finding the silken sash wrapped at his middle with her hands. She shouldn't know how to untie the complex knot at his hip, but she does because it belongs to him.
What a kindness being familiar like this is.]
no subject
Certainly nothing right now, except perhaps that her hands were already wandering along with her mind, the exact direction each end of silk wrapped to complete the knot- and the knowledge that she had to go looking in the first place. Ridiculous- a huff of laughter at the edge of her mouth. She would have to forgive him, again, he hadn't considered the potential for added difficulty. He was not so presumptuous to imagine this inevitability- or perhaps it was simply that he was more vain than imaginative. He had certainly chosen every piece of the outfit with an eye towards something, and it was not the ease in which it could be shed. Another bit of structure to make him feel as if he had any control at all.
He didn't have to search her mind for the place her chains could begin to be unwound. he knew the drape of them, the way they fell, the ringing where they touched her hip and how it different from the chime at her wrist- the individual pieces, at least some of their meanings. He doesn't need to steady her. She is steady, so his right hand is free to run along the lower edge of one of the endless strings of silvery links, smoothly sliding across calluses that had a lifetime to develop. His fingers find the small hidden clasp at the same time his mouth finds a spot to come to rest, just under the curve of her jaw.]