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[ailerons]

[ So he can see: the shine in her eyes, the soft ripple down her spine; the coat that she wore, that he left his instructions in, pinpricks of lightening sky in the corners of his vision. Jake's mouth cuts brighter, wider. The denim of his knee, solid thigh blatantly pressing back — maybe an offered anchor as much as it is a coax and call, another invitation to play with higher stakes. Win big. Stay up all night. What's there to lose, in a place like this?

Lightly, his hand wraps around the swell of her calf. His mouth hovers nears hers, but never quite makes contact. Up, then, his calloused palm smoothing from calf to warm bend of her knee, the pad of his thumb catching over textures and curves in the lace. He's leisurely with it — luxuriating, a little, the way men sometimes do with pretty things. ]

You want me to try harder. [ Not mean. The affectation of flatness, ruined in a heartbeat by the wink he flashes at her. But the sharpness inside of him grows more obvious, a fishhook as he places a kiss to her cheek, sweet even as he bears his body down a fraction. The obvious shift of weight; the push and grind between her legs.

Neither of them, really, are so sweet. Wild animals never really are. It's nice to try it on for size anyway, Jake's mouth nudging at her jaw. The scratch of his stubble as he murmurs, warmly, into the shell of her ear: ]

What are you thinking about?

[ This time of morning— too early for an audience, he's sure. Not so early that there's the promise of privacy. He hums lightly, the noise a rumble that echoes in his chest. From the lace of her tights, Jake, whose nucleus is hard-wired to want more even when the going's good, to nurture and build in the face of his flightless ambition, lets his hand roam her side. The dip of her waist, the flare of her ribs. Further, all the way, until his thumb pulls at the plush shape of her bottom lip. ]

Because I'm thinking about making you come all over my hand. [ His brows lift back, too. Head tipping, almost puppyish. ] And seeing how quiet you can be.

[temporicide]

[ Whatever finishing school she shoved herself through as a younger pretty thing has not remediated a natural tendency to need like a stray animal, composure a little undone by affection where given. This proclivity isn't only emotional; some unusual physical sensitivity coats the network of her nerves. Consequently her breathing fast becomes a sound-tangled huff with the change in friction, lids of her eyes lowering. Unsteady, and not especially shy about showing it. The kiss is sweeter for its near-chastity, context excluded; with it, pressure makes her want to rise up against him and get greedy. Her mouth is slightly open, the pink-red valentine of her tongue visible at the back of her bottom teeth, right where they get sharp.

Roza's expression transmits her easy receptiveness during the exploratory course of his hand. Like a flower face opening when its season comes calling, this welcoming comes naturally; she would ask him touch her, she thinks, any way he wants. But she doesn't need to say it out loud; the upward flex of her pelvis is its own language. ]

Wouldn't you know it —

[ Her own arm comes coasting up to drag the edges of her nails gentle across the side of his hand, down to wrist, in twirly little patterns that will fade in seconds, sandcastle-brief, etched in white across skin. More sensation-building than real scratch. (As far as she's concerned, this is the primary reason for a good manicure.) ]

Same page. But you might need to gag me. [ This is itself a dare, be it via the tearable lace of her tights or her equally flimsy underwear or just the warm flat of his hand. ] I like to talk too much, you know.

[ And because some hedonistic suffering is good for the soul, and he's in jeans, which aren't always so forgiving: ]

See if I can't make you ache a little, too.