||[14 Feb 2005|01:39pm]
They are between the fifth and sixth floor when the elevator buckle and jarrs. It could be worse. At least she likes him. The heat in the elevator quickly becomes unbearable and before they notice, they're shedding layers of clothes. She's not like this usually but in this particular case, she almost can't help herself.
She's looking into the eyes of her own pale reflection which is convenient as her eyes are almost all she can see of herself hidden behind the curtain of her hair. His frustrated hands struggle with her shoulders as he tries to keep an electric, ever-diminishing inch between them. She is, after all, a virgin and he (having no experience with virgins whatsoever) does not want to scare her off. He wants to keep this one for a bit longer than one night. But she will have none of it.
She wrenches out of his iron grip and slides her palms over his shoulders and around his neck. Her fingers lace through his hair. His thighs burn and he concentrates on keeping himself from erection which is much like trying to move a parade of rowdy children through a sleeping lions den. It's a difficult task.
"Eilis, stop," he moans into his hands. He rubs his face solidly for a moment thinking of small parades of rowdy children.
"I thought you were the pimp here and I was supposed to be the one afraid of you. It's almost as if you're afraid of me! It's funny, really." And just then, with her innocent arms around his neck, something inside of him snaps. His fingers release his face and his strong limbs wrap around her tightly, crushing her against him, pressing her hips into his, grinding his aroused sex into her softness. She gasps.
"Hardly. I'm not afraid of you," he whispers hoarsely, "I'm afraid of myself and what I am going to do to you if you don't stop me."
"Oh... I..." She breathes softly into his neck, wriggling in his arms. What should be a civil exchange between two people trapped in an elevator quickly escalates into some whole new breed of crazy due to hot breath on his neck and friction on his hips.
It requires every rapidly fraying shred of restraint left in him to release her and back away from her trembling frame and when he does, he manages only a few inches, not wanting to break the torturous hot breath of contact.
"Do something," he says. "Do or say something quick. Tell me I disgust you and my saying or doing any of this offends you. Say something. Anything." Her reaction is not what he is expecting at all. She thinks a moment, silent and void even of breath, and then timidly steps toward him and feathers her lips quickly over his, wrapping her arms around his neck once again.
"I think I want you."
A hyperawareness of skin and physicality. Her petite paleness, stretched long and warm on the length of his body like a cat fog his brain. He wants to fuck her. Hard. Her legs are slyly wrapped around him. He wants her but he finds himself sort of backing off. He's not used to women affecting him mentally. Up until now, every other sexual occasion, whether with someone he's loved or not, has been purely about taking. For the first time, he worries about how a gentleman should aproach a lady. His arms close on her like sedated eyelids, their warm and languid bodies trembling together and with direction and a dirty conscience, his mouth takes hers. She tastes like something familiar. His fingertips grace the small of her back. Chills course through her body. Her heart hammers against her ribs. His lips possess her. She belongs to his mouth and the beauty of his hands on the small of her back. He fights himself. He's sure he may explode into bits but he withdraws a bit and kisses her softly, slowly, like in books and sappy romance movies. He backs away a bit more, the separation divine torture.
"Touch me the way you want me to touch you, Eilis. Show me what to do." And taking her hand, he places it on his chest.
She takes her time, investigating the buttons of his shirt, shedding it and his undershirt. Her fingers delicately swirl on the skin of his belly and his chest, across his ribs and back, behind to the backs of his arms and his elbows, his neck, his ribs his waist. His hands clasp and unclasp almost painfully. Every painstaking move she makes is torture. The beast in him wants to throw her violently to the mirrored wall of the elevator and the man in him wants to stay in the moment as long as humanly possible. Her small fingers scratch, then, at his skin, each scratch a match to which there is immediate fire that burns. His eyes close tightly. Any second she will realize what she's doing and stop it, at which point he will surely burn away into nothing. This theory explodes as her lips trail over one of his nipples. Her hands glide unmercifully across his body followed by the warmth and softness of her lips. She pauses on his belt. His breath catches.
"I can't take this," she says, suddenly. His eyes flick open.
"...Wh-wh-what? What can't you take?"
"This..." she waves her hand around, "All of this." His spastic heart flails into his ass.
"What 'this'? What's the 'this'??!?"
"This pace I'm setting. You're fun to explore, but...
"But what?" He is defeated. He even begins to get angry. This whole bringing-him-to-throbbing-erection-and-backing-out thing is not fun. Not remotely. He reluctantly states, "We're moving too fast for you?"
"Well, um." She breathes. "Actually, the sentiment was sweet and all but I kind of just want you to do me now against this wall."
He couldn't fuck her harder if she was Chinese Algebra.