Her hands wandered his back. She hugged him. Near breathless, her voice told him lowly that she loved him, she loved him, as they moved together on soft sheets, a clean bed, no one watching. He slipped out of her at one point, still thrusting before he became aware that it had happened. He opened his eyes and found her smiling at him. Her hand touched him and held him against her body, almost protectively, before she helped him in.
Their pace quickened. He felt her excitement, her body squeezing against him. The pressure of her fingertips on his back, his buttocks now.
They don't often come off together. So much better. His world was suddenly nothing but ecstacy, her hot body, the cool sheets, and the ceiling fan moving air over them. A deep satisfaction set in, and a bone-deep exhaustion.
Picus closed his eyes and drew out of her, hugging her loosely. Arms always got in the way. He felt his body sink into the bed and told himself he was waiting. She was nosing him, giving little kisses.
Martina fell asleep eventually with their fingers interlocked.
Picus left her there, pulling the sheet up, unbunching it, and letting it loft down over her body. He rubbed his hands over his face as he collected his clothing from the floor and walked with it into the adjoining room taken out in a fake name.
Sometimes he left like this. She never questioned. Her imagination filled in all the blanks for him. He went to the sink basin and washed his hands, his face, and ran water over a towel for a quick rubdown. He dressed himself in what he wore earlier, patting down the pocket to find the crumpled note again.
Picus straightened his tie, combed his hair, and turned off the light as he walked back to the bed in his own room. He took his briefcase and spread it open on the undisturbed covers. A few clothing items. A lint brush. Cigars. A flask that would look like it contained an alcoholic drink, and the paisley kerchief that wrapped it. At first glance the briefcase appeared to contain only these things.
For some reason he went to the open door between their rooms and looked in on her again. Fast asleep.
It was going to be difficult to kill her some day.
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timeasmymeasure
Girl from Ipanema 12/?
Date: 2012-06-16 09:06 am (UTC)Their pace quickened. He felt her excitement, her body squeezing against him. The pressure of her fingertips on his back, his buttocks now.
They don't often come off together. So much better. His world was suddenly nothing but ecstacy, her hot body, the cool sheets, and the ceiling fan moving air over them. A deep satisfaction set in, and a bone-deep exhaustion.
Picus closed his eyes and drew out of her, hugging her loosely. Arms always got in the way. He felt his body sink into the bed and told himself he was waiting. She was nosing him, giving little kisses.
Martina fell asleep eventually with their fingers interlocked.
Picus left her there, pulling the sheet up, unbunching it, and letting it loft down over her body. He rubbed his hands over his face as he collected his clothing from the floor and walked with it into the adjoining room taken out in a fake name.
Sometimes he left like this. She never questioned. Her imagination filled in all the blanks for him. He went to the sink basin and washed his hands, his face, and ran water over a towel for a quick rubdown. He dressed himself in what he wore earlier, patting down the pocket to find the crumpled note again.
Picus straightened his tie, combed his hair, and turned off the light as he walked back to the bed in his own room. He took his briefcase and spread it open on the undisturbed covers. A few clothing items. A lint brush. Cigars. A flask that would look like it contained an alcoholic drink, and the paisley kerchief that wrapped it. At first glance the briefcase appeared to contain only these things.
For some reason he went to the open door between their rooms and looked in on her again. Fast asleep.
It was going to be difficult to kill her some day.