negotiation (nancy drew, nancy/ned, nc-17)
Feb. 1st, 2009 12:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ndnickersonTitle: Negotiation
Fandom: Nancy Drew, post-Files
Characters: Nancy/Ned
Prompt: satin
Word Count: 3695
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Nancy pays Ned a surprise visit at Emerson.
Author's Notes: Very much sex, written for the Seven Deadly Sins porn battle.
He's never been able to get used to how she can appear in his life, quite suddenly, with no warning at all. He's at basketball practice, in the aftermath of a particularly disheartening loss, shoes squeaking on the gleaming floor, and then he somehow feels it, glances up, and she's sitting on the third row of bleachers, gloves folded in her lap, meeting his gaze with a soft smile.
She's still sitting there when he leaves the locker room after practice, hair still damp, lungs still aching. Howie's moving away, and she's glancing after him, a high, delighted blush in her cheeks. She looks radiant, but in front of everyone, their kiss is almost perfunctory. "I wasn't expecting you."
"You aren't happy to see me?"
"Oh, I am," he protests immediately, giving her a hand as she pushes herself up, perching on high heels, her legs shapely and fucking breathtaking after all the time she's been away. Her long coat is belted tight against the cold, leaving only that flash of whispering stockings, the kind with the seam up the back, the kind that is an undeniable aphrodisiac. Her heels click commandingly against the gym floor. Jason and Eric are still talking to the coach, so he can't simply reach over, slide his arm around her waist and spin her into his arms.
She promises, rolled eyes and exasperation in her voice, that yes, she will be here in the morning, and yes, she will drive him back for practice so he's not stranded without his car. Once they're in the Mustang she twists the heater knob to full-blast, shifting the car into gear, forcing him back in his seat.
"You must be cold," he says, his gym bag resting in his lap, leaving him free to imagine her reaction should he inch his fingers up under the hem of her coat, if he should lean over and kiss her just under her jaw. "Guess we'll have to do something about that."
Her eyes sparkle. "I have a few ideas," she replies, her voice shaking with smothered laughter.
When she parks at Omega Chi she reaches for her own overnight bag. Since their first time together, he's fallen victim to an irrational fear that one day she'll casually tell him that she'll be staying at Theta Pi instead, and that will be the end of it; nothing so direct as an admission of infidelity, just a way to let him know that she's tired of him, that she's taken another lover, that she no longer has the energy to keep their relationship going. Sometimes, when she's been gone too long, he fantasizes about setting minor unoccupied Emerson buildings on fire, about sending vague menacing letters to the college newspaper, just so Dean Jarvis will call her in and she'll breeze back into his life again.
He's glad it's never come to that; he's glad of her brief, dazzling smile as she leads the way to the house.
--
It was all Bess's idea, and Nancy has to have gone temporarily insane to have agreed to it. She's been blushing ever since she stepped out of the car and signed in at the gym, her heart pounding fiercely in her ears as she watched him run his drills, her gloves folded neatly in her lap, her palms braced on either side of her hips to keep her hands from shaking.
Too much could go wrong.
She shakes her head impatiently to herself, still unobserved. For not the first time she wishes she and Ned had talked about it, really talked about it, before the night the punchbowl had been unsurprisingly spiked and they had ended up in bed together. She can remain cold and imperturbable as steel while confronting arsonists or calculated killers, but when she thinks about discussing his expectations of their new relationship, her throat locks up. Will he need time to himself, now? She has all the time she needs, staring at the phone from her hotel room a thousand miles away, throwing herself into her investigations, suddenly afraid because she has seen the alternative.
Sometimes Ned feels like one of her only links to a normal life. She had never given it much thought, never found that significant, not until now.
Her jewelry box is choked with chains and pendants, delicate links in silver and gold, earrings and bracelets, all that he has given her. There has been no jewelry since, just his hands on her in the dark, her inescapable yielding. This is what normal people do. This is what girlfriends do. He had been incredibly patient, to wait as long as he did.
During their last fight she had wondered if the sacrifice of her virginity would have earned her a diamond.
She lifts her overnight bag from the backseat, careful to keep her coat closed, and he makes no protest, no protracted excuse as to why she cannot stay. Since she cannot quantify, cannot name what changed in that night, what one variable slipped from "no" to "yes," she is never sure what will stop it from flipping back again. Since he's had her, does he expect he always will? Was the yield of one hazy night enough to make him confident of her?
She's never told him, outside his bed, outside the meaningless words meant to inflame him, to tease and claim him, how much she wants him. Without his implicit invitation and approval, the disappointment and rejection of being denied her place with him would hurt more than she could imagine, and she has tried to imagine it, has tried to steel herself against the possibility that he will turn to her with apology and pain in his eyes to tell her there is someone else, that he could no longer wait for her. Now that she has experienced his direct, full, consuming attention, she can't be without it. She's desperate to hear him whisper his love into her ear while he caresses her, while he teases and nips, urges and fondles.
Neither of them has mentioned or even breathed the word marriage since this began, and with every second that passes she is more sure that she must demand his attention, must make him as addicted to her as she is to him, to keep him faithful while she's away.
She took him for granted when their steamiest encounter was a makeout session in Emerson Woods. But then the stakes weren't nearly so high.
So when he closes the door behind them, leaving the light off as he pulls her into his arms, she's shaking a little; from the expression in his eyes, he attributes it to desire, or maybe the chill still lingering in the folds of her coat, in the tips of her ears. "I think I said I'd warm you up," he says, his voice low and unselfconsciously seductive, and then his mouth is on hers, her hand coming up to cup his cheek, her heels smacking to the floor as she stands on her tiptoes to meet him. His warm, broad hands cup her ass and press her against him, and she's relieved at how clearly she can feel his rigid cock beneath his pants. Before it would have meant stammered apologies and glowing blushes and clenching her thighs tight against that unanswered muted throb between her legs. Now it means this course is set, and she aches all the more for knowing that she'll soon be satisfied.
Then his hands are at her navel, picking at the knotted sash of her coat, and her mouth goes dry. "Are you frostbitten, Nan? Let me kiss it and make it better," he murmurs against the side of her throat as he loosens the sash and pushes her coat open. She's still shaking as she gives one hard shrug of her shoulders and the coat falls, and his hands are warm through the satin.
She kisses him once, hard, the kind of kiss that leaves bruises, and walks over to his bedside lamp and clicks it on because she wants him to see her, wants to see the look in his eyes when he sees her, and her heart is pounding.
Though the satin slip is long enough, for barest modesty's sake, the lace hem skimming a few inches above her knee, she's mostly naked beneath; she can tell, as she measures her breaths and watches him take her in, watches his eyes darken with lust, that her nipples are already hard, peaked and straining against the tight fit. The stockings are held up by her black lace garter belt, although from here all he can see are the satin straps, not the newly smoothed flesh between her thighs. That, more than anything, had made her feel exposed and nervous, as she had sat in the bleachers waiting for him to notice her, acutely aware of the way the lining of her coat felt against the bare skin.
She swallows, hard. "I think I am frostbitten," she murmurs, taking the hem of her slip between her fingers, and as she draws it up she notes with glowing satisfaction the way his gaze gravitates to the join of her thighs, and the way his lips part a little as the lamplight falls on the smooth, newly hairless flesh there. By the time she's finished pulling the gown fully off, he's almost close enough to touch, still fully clothed, and he can't take his eyes off her. This is entirely, breathlessly new. She wore her garter belt around him, before, under skirts just short enough that his lecherous gaze would catch them, and he would always vanish for a while, and then come back, pointedly not looking at her knees, a strange fierce expression in his eyes. His self-control has been incredible.
She's never actually tried to seduce him before. Not like this.
"Nan," he murmurs, and cups his palm between her thighs, wondering at the feel of her skin. He curves a finger to rest against the seam of her lips, then gently slides it up inside, and she has to plant her palms against the low table behind her, to keep her knees from buckling. She moans softly, knees already parted, as he draws his fingertip up, stopping just short of her clit. He had discovered that particular spot during their third night together, and try as she might, in those lonely hotel rooms on the edges of civilization, she can never reproduce the sheer mindblowing orgasm he had been able to give her just by stroking it with his thumb.
"That must be cold."
She nods, holding his gaze, and although her breasts are brushed with gooseflesh, her nipples achingly, gloriously sensitive with the chill, the path his finger traced between her thighs has never been hotter.
She has felt his lips over every part of her face, her shoulders, the crease inside her elbows, between her breasts. He loves to suckle against her breasts, to tease her nipples with teeth and tongue until she rests her palm against the back of his head and presses him to her, gasping, legs moving restlessly against him. He has trailed kisses down to her navel, brushed his lips against her inner thighs, but she has never felt his breath between her legs, never felt his tongue press into her wet flesh, never felt his mouth prepare her for his cock. And she has kissed him; oh, how she has kissed him, nipping at the points of his hips, scraping her teeth against his nipples, usually in the morning with her hair a tangled mess down her back and her thighs still slick with sweat and desire. His cock has never required any help from her, either by mouth or hand, to stiffen to readiness, and he's never asked, though he did arch and grope for her whenever her kisses strayed so far.
Now he's offering, and Nancy hadn't realized why Bess had said, Trust me, he will love it. Maybe she hadn't wanted to.
She slides out of her heels and into his bed, reaching for the clips to her garter belt.
"No," he says, and still he can't keep his gaze from that newly revealed creamy flesh between her thighs. "Leave it on. Definitely leave it on."
--
For a second, when she pulls that gown up over her head and reveals herself to him, he's irrationally panicked, afraid she's found his stash of dirty videos, but he can't take his eyes off her. He had been unprepared, their first time, for the way she would feel there, her hair coarse as his, and he had known that touch very well, from every time she kissed him a little too long, every time he had ever seen her in a bikini, and he had arched under his own touch, spilling hotly when he imagined her yanking down her panties and straddling him, crying out her desire.
But it hadn't been like his videos, their first time. They had been slick with sweat and she had giggled nervously instead of moaning and grinding against his touch. But her eyes hadn't been glassy and disinterested, either, and even through the alcohol he had teased a moaned, pleading yes from her. He had taken it slow, so slow, amazed by all of it, and then she had panted and her hips had shifted under him and it had been utterly, unspeakably perfect, like she was made for him, and there had been no resistance anymore, only the slick caress of her hot flesh as he had thrust, again and again, her hands fisting in his hair, her breath against his skin.
She feels so smooth under the cup of his hand, her thighs already gleaming a little, and yes, when he slides his finger between her lips she's already wet for him, probably has been since the moment they locked eyes not an hour earlier.
He'll never admit it to anyone outside this room, but he's been wondering what she tastes like since the first time he curved a finger between her thighs.
When she starts to take the garter belt off, he tells her to leave it on; it's like she's somehow tapped into his psyche, she's hitting all the buttons. On this particular fantasy, anyway. He takes his shirt off, opens his fly but leaves his pants on, relieving the pressure against his cock.
Then he kisses her, propped up and tracing circles over her breast with the ball of his thumb, and she wraps her legs around his waist, toes wriggling beneath his waistband to push his jeans down another few inches. The thin cotton of his boxers is the only barrier between them, and when he thinks of the pale smooth flesh between her legs he has to touch it again, caressing her as he darts her tongue into her mouth and parts her with his thumbs.
She makes a soft choked sound and arches under him.
"Cold here?"
"Yes."
They play the game and he answers with a swirl of his tongue, and each progressive "Yes" is more breathless than the last. He kisses her earlobes, her throat, her collarbone, and when his mouth closes over her breast he can't master the impulse to slide his thumb a little deeper and brush it very gently over her clit, and she shudders under him. He kisses her elbow, her navel, her hip, unlocking her legs and pushing her knees further apart.
From what Mike told him, swearing him to secrecy that would result, if breached, in his immediate and painful death, he is very glad that he didn't shave during his earlier shower. He takes a breath and slides her lips apart, feeling her practically thrum in anticipation under him, and pauses for a moment before gently, experimentally brushing the point of his stubbled chin against her clit.
Immediately she tightens under him, letting out a breathless cry, and he feels the first drop of pre-cum at the tip of his cock, in answer.
"Cold here?"
"Fuck yes," she pants, and he chuckles, drawing the tip of his tongue up and over the folds of her flesh, ending by driving it hard against her clit, and her legs tighten around his shoulders in answer.
--
She's just opened her mouth to attempt to ask him if he's done this before, without somehow implying that he's a nympho and a cheater who goes down on girls all the time, when he rubs his chin against her clit again, two fingers sliding up inside her, and everything, the embarrassment she'd always felt when even thinking about this, the shame that rose in her cheeks while she had felt his kisses stray lower and lower, is all washed away.
She had no idea that anything could ever feel this good, much less that Ned eating her out could feel this unspeakably erotic. She's always hated his kisses when his face isn't relatively freshly shaved; now she would get on her knees and return this favor if he'd promise to keep a five-o'clock shadow. He licks her clit and his stubble rasps against her sensitive flesh and she pants out a low rasping scream, her breasts aching for touch. Since his hands are otherwise occupied, and she'd never dream of asking him to do anything else, she rubs her palms over her nipples, feeling the firm tips drag against her skin, then pinches the tight rosy nubs between her nails just as he rubs his chin against her clit again and she arches, throwing her head back, her hips moving in restless arcs to meet the thrust of his fingers, still pinching and releasing her own nipples.
And then she can only feel his fingers, and she glances up, caught mid-pinch, to see him gazing at her, still kneeling between her thighs, her legs still wrapped tight around him. "I don't have enough hands for you?" he teases her gently.
She keeps watching his gaze as she cups her breasts, squeezing them before she pinches her nipples again, and his fingers ram hard between her thighs in answer, prompting a low chuckling gasp.
"Trust me," she whispers, helplessly grinding into his touch, "I'm not complaining."
He smiles. "Didn't sound like you were," he says, and he sounds very pleased with himself, even just a little surprised. She feels the need to ask him again, how he knows her body well enough to bring her to orgasm over and over again when her own attempts are never so satisfying, but she breaks off that train of thought with a moan, sinking back to the pillows as he slides his fingers out of her, tracing them up to lazily stroke her clit as he fills her with his tongue. She rests the balls of her thumbs against her nipples, then matches the rhythm of his fingertip against her clit, and soon she's bucking wildly under him, trembling with desire.
When he pauses she pants for breath, rolling her head from side to side in wordless pleading as he unlocks her legs, though he leaves her with a parting brush of his stubble that urges another cry from her. He pushes his jeans and boxers down and she watches, palms cupping her breasts, offering them to him as he pushes her knees apart and guides himself to her with a trembling hand.
Although she's been on the point of orgasm for what feels like weeks, the familiar fullness of his cock inside her draws it out even more, and they angle against each other, finding their rhythm. She locks her legs around him again, drawing her stockinged foot against his ass, and he shudders against her, one hand against her stomach with his thumb sliding between her lips as his other finds her still fondling her nipples. He lets out a soft hiss and buries the full length of his cock inside her, then brushes her clit, and she jerks up, writhing under him, completely in his power.
Then he settles his body over hers, pinning her under his weight, and fucks her. Every stroke, every thrust of his cock between her legs leaves him slick, his thumb worrying her oversensitive clit. The bedside lamp is still on; when she tilts her head back she can see into his face, her vision jumping, her entire body tightening in answer every time he drives his cock home. "God," she pants, squeezing her thighs tight, clenching him hard inside her as she begins to lose control, crying out as her hips jerk and thrust in powerless answer to the hard thrust of him inside her.
"I love you, I love you so much," she moans, shivering when he comes, feeling him pulse at the apex of one last long, brutal thrust. Her entire world has become the sensation of him sliding in and out of her, the rippling answer of her wet flesh to the brush of his thumb, the mounting waves of each orgasm as he made her come, over and over.
"I love you," he whispers, collapsing to her, her hands and his hand crushed between them. She slides her palms away and her breasts are pressed to his chest, sweat-slick skin, his heart thundering against hers.
It takes a long time for him to roll off her, but just before he does, she wraps her arm around him, keeping him on top of her, his cock still nestled warm between her legs. "Let's make a deal," she murmurs, eyes sparkling. "I'll keep shaving if you..." She runs the ball of her thumb against the point of his chin, the scent of her drying on his skin, still musky on his tongue. She tastes it when he kisses her, when his tongue plunges into her mouth, and she shivers at the memory.
Then he pulls back, so their mouths are just touching, and she can feel a grin on his lips.
"Deal."
Fandom: Nancy Drew, post-Files
Characters: Nancy/Ned
Prompt: satin
Word Count: 3695
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Nancy pays Ned a surprise visit at Emerson.
Author's Notes: Very much sex, written for the Seven Deadly Sins porn battle.
He's never been able to get used to how she can appear in his life, quite suddenly, with no warning at all. He's at basketball practice, in the aftermath of a particularly disheartening loss, shoes squeaking on the gleaming floor, and then he somehow feels it, glances up, and she's sitting on the third row of bleachers, gloves folded in her lap, meeting his gaze with a soft smile.
She's still sitting there when he leaves the locker room after practice, hair still damp, lungs still aching. Howie's moving away, and she's glancing after him, a high, delighted blush in her cheeks. She looks radiant, but in front of everyone, their kiss is almost perfunctory. "I wasn't expecting you."
"You aren't happy to see me?"
"Oh, I am," he protests immediately, giving her a hand as she pushes herself up, perching on high heels, her legs shapely and fucking breathtaking after all the time she's been away. Her long coat is belted tight against the cold, leaving only that flash of whispering stockings, the kind with the seam up the back, the kind that is an undeniable aphrodisiac. Her heels click commandingly against the gym floor. Jason and Eric are still talking to the coach, so he can't simply reach over, slide his arm around her waist and spin her into his arms.
She promises, rolled eyes and exasperation in her voice, that yes, she will be here in the morning, and yes, she will drive him back for practice so he's not stranded without his car. Once they're in the Mustang she twists the heater knob to full-blast, shifting the car into gear, forcing him back in his seat.
"You must be cold," he says, his gym bag resting in his lap, leaving him free to imagine her reaction should he inch his fingers up under the hem of her coat, if he should lean over and kiss her just under her jaw. "Guess we'll have to do something about that."
Her eyes sparkle. "I have a few ideas," she replies, her voice shaking with smothered laughter.
When she parks at Omega Chi she reaches for her own overnight bag. Since their first time together, he's fallen victim to an irrational fear that one day she'll casually tell him that she'll be staying at Theta Pi instead, and that will be the end of it; nothing so direct as an admission of infidelity, just a way to let him know that she's tired of him, that she's taken another lover, that she no longer has the energy to keep their relationship going. Sometimes, when she's been gone too long, he fantasizes about setting minor unoccupied Emerson buildings on fire, about sending vague menacing letters to the college newspaper, just so Dean Jarvis will call her in and she'll breeze back into his life again.
He's glad it's never come to that; he's glad of her brief, dazzling smile as she leads the way to the house.
--
It was all Bess's idea, and Nancy has to have gone temporarily insane to have agreed to it. She's been blushing ever since she stepped out of the car and signed in at the gym, her heart pounding fiercely in her ears as she watched him run his drills, her gloves folded neatly in her lap, her palms braced on either side of her hips to keep her hands from shaking.
Too much could go wrong.
She shakes her head impatiently to herself, still unobserved. For not the first time she wishes she and Ned had talked about it, really talked about it, before the night the punchbowl had been unsurprisingly spiked and they had ended up in bed together. She can remain cold and imperturbable as steel while confronting arsonists or calculated killers, but when she thinks about discussing his expectations of their new relationship, her throat locks up. Will he need time to himself, now? She has all the time she needs, staring at the phone from her hotel room a thousand miles away, throwing herself into her investigations, suddenly afraid because she has seen the alternative.
Sometimes Ned feels like one of her only links to a normal life. She had never given it much thought, never found that significant, not until now.
Her jewelry box is choked with chains and pendants, delicate links in silver and gold, earrings and bracelets, all that he has given her. There has been no jewelry since, just his hands on her in the dark, her inescapable yielding. This is what normal people do. This is what girlfriends do. He had been incredibly patient, to wait as long as he did.
During their last fight she had wondered if the sacrifice of her virginity would have earned her a diamond.
She lifts her overnight bag from the backseat, careful to keep her coat closed, and he makes no protest, no protracted excuse as to why she cannot stay. Since she cannot quantify, cannot name what changed in that night, what one variable slipped from "no" to "yes," she is never sure what will stop it from flipping back again. Since he's had her, does he expect he always will? Was the yield of one hazy night enough to make him confident of her?
She's never told him, outside his bed, outside the meaningless words meant to inflame him, to tease and claim him, how much she wants him. Without his implicit invitation and approval, the disappointment and rejection of being denied her place with him would hurt more than she could imagine, and she has tried to imagine it, has tried to steel herself against the possibility that he will turn to her with apology and pain in his eyes to tell her there is someone else, that he could no longer wait for her. Now that she has experienced his direct, full, consuming attention, she can't be without it. She's desperate to hear him whisper his love into her ear while he caresses her, while he teases and nips, urges and fondles.
Neither of them has mentioned or even breathed the word marriage since this began, and with every second that passes she is more sure that she must demand his attention, must make him as addicted to her as she is to him, to keep him faithful while she's away.
She took him for granted when their steamiest encounter was a makeout session in Emerson Woods. But then the stakes weren't nearly so high.
So when he closes the door behind them, leaving the light off as he pulls her into his arms, she's shaking a little; from the expression in his eyes, he attributes it to desire, or maybe the chill still lingering in the folds of her coat, in the tips of her ears. "I think I said I'd warm you up," he says, his voice low and unselfconsciously seductive, and then his mouth is on hers, her hand coming up to cup his cheek, her heels smacking to the floor as she stands on her tiptoes to meet him. His warm, broad hands cup her ass and press her against him, and she's relieved at how clearly she can feel his rigid cock beneath his pants. Before it would have meant stammered apologies and glowing blushes and clenching her thighs tight against that unanswered muted throb between her legs. Now it means this course is set, and she aches all the more for knowing that she'll soon be satisfied.
Then his hands are at her navel, picking at the knotted sash of her coat, and her mouth goes dry. "Are you frostbitten, Nan? Let me kiss it and make it better," he murmurs against the side of her throat as he loosens the sash and pushes her coat open. She's still shaking as she gives one hard shrug of her shoulders and the coat falls, and his hands are warm through the satin.
She kisses him once, hard, the kind of kiss that leaves bruises, and walks over to his bedside lamp and clicks it on because she wants him to see her, wants to see the look in his eyes when he sees her, and her heart is pounding.
Though the satin slip is long enough, for barest modesty's sake, the lace hem skimming a few inches above her knee, she's mostly naked beneath; she can tell, as she measures her breaths and watches him take her in, watches his eyes darken with lust, that her nipples are already hard, peaked and straining against the tight fit. The stockings are held up by her black lace garter belt, although from here all he can see are the satin straps, not the newly smoothed flesh between her thighs. That, more than anything, had made her feel exposed and nervous, as she had sat in the bleachers waiting for him to notice her, acutely aware of the way the lining of her coat felt against the bare skin.
She swallows, hard. "I think I am frostbitten," she murmurs, taking the hem of her slip between her fingers, and as she draws it up she notes with glowing satisfaction the way his gaze gravitates to the join of her thighs, and the way his lips part a little as the lamplight falls on the smooth, newly hairless flesh there. By the time she's finished pulling the gown fully off, he's almost close enough to touch, still fully clothed, and he can't take his eyes off her. This is entirely, breathlessly new. She wore her garter belt around him, before, under skirts just short enough that his lecherous gaze would catch them, and he would always vanish for a while, and then come back, pointedly not looking at her knees, a strange fierce expression in his eyes. His self-control has been incredible.
She's never actually tried to seduce him before. Not like this.
"Nan," he murmurs, and cups his palm between her thighs, wondering at the feel of her skin. He curves a finger to rest against the seam of her lips, then gently slides it up inside, and she has to plant her palms against the low table behind her, to keep her knees from buckling. She moans softly, knees already parted, as he draws his fingertip up, stopping just short of her clit. He had discovered that particular spot during their third night together, and try as she might, in those lonely hotel rooms on the edges of civilization, she can never reproduce the sheer mindblowing orgasm he had been able to give her just by stroking it with his thumb.
"That must be cold."
She nods, holding his gaze, and although her breasts are brushed with gooseflesh, her nipples achingly, gloriously sensitive with the chill, the path his finger traced between her thighs has never been hotter.
She has felt his lips over every part of her face, her shoulders, the crease inside her elbows, between her breasts. He loves to suckle against her breasts, to tease her nipples with teeth and tongue until she rests her palm against the back of his head and presses him to her, gasping, legs moving restlessly against him. He has trailed kisses down to her navel, brushed his lips against her inner thighs, but she has never felt his breath between her legs, never felt his tongue press into her wet flesh, never felt his mouth prepare her for his cock. And she has kissed him; oh, how she has kissed him, nipping at the points of his hips, scraping her teeth against his nipples, usually in the morning with her hair a tangled mess down her back and her thighs still slick with sweat and desire. His cock has never required any help from her, either by mouth or hand, to stiffen to readiness, and he's never asked, though he did arch and grope for her whenever her kisses strayed so far.
Now he's offering, and Nancy hadn't realized why Bess had said, Trust me, he will love it. Maybe she hadn't wanted to.
She slides out of her heels and into his bed, reaching for the clips to her garter belt.
"No," he says, and still he can't keep his gaze from that newly revealed creamy flesh between her thighs. "Leave it on. Definitely leave it on."
--
For a second, when she pulls that gown up over her head and reveals herself to him, he's irrationally panicked, afraid she's found his stash of dirty videos, but he can't take his eyes off her. He had been unprepared, their first time, for the way she would feel there, her hair coarse as his, and he had known that touch very well, from every time she kissed him a little too long, every time he had ever seen her in a bikini, and he had arched under his own touch, spilling hotly when he imagined her yanking down her panties and straddling him, crying out her desire.
But it hadn't been like his videos, their first time. They had been slick with sweat and she had giggled nervously instead of moaning and grinding against his touch. But her eyes hadn't been glassy and disinterested, either, and even through the alcohol he had teased a moaned, pleading yes from her. He had taken it slow, so slow, amazed by all of it, and then she had panted and her hips had shifted under him and it had been utterly, unspeakably perfect, like she was made for him, and there had been no resistance anymore, only the slick caress of her hot flesh as he had thrust, again and again, her hands fisting in his hair, her breath against his skin.
She feels so smooth under the cup of his hand, her thighs already gleaming a little, and yes, when he slides his finger between her lips she's already wet for him, probably has been since the moment they locked eyes not an hour earlier.
He'll never admit it to anyone outside this room, but he's been wondering what she tastes like since the first time he curved a finger between her thighs.
When she starts to take the garter belt off, he tells her to leave it on; it's like she's somehow tapped into his psyche, she's hitting all the buttons. On this particular fantasy, anyway. He takes his shirt off, opens his fly but leaves his pants on, relieving the pressure against his cock.
Then he kisses her, propped up and tracing circles over her breast with the ball of his thumb, and she wraps her legs around his waist, toes wriggling beneath his waistband to push his jeans down another few inches. The thin cotton of his boxers is the only barrier between them, and when he thinks of the pale smooth flesh between her legs he has to touch it again, caressing her as he darts her tongue into her mouth and parts her with his thumbs.
She makes a soft choked sound and arches under him.
"Cold here?"
"Yes."
They play the game and he answers with a swirl of his tongue, and each progressive "Yes" is more breathless than the last. He kisses her earlobes, her throat, her collarbone, and when his mouth closes over her breast he can't master the impulse to slide his thumb a little deeper and brush it very gently over her clit, and she shudders under him. He kisses her elbow, her navel, her hip, unlocking her legs and pushing her knees further apart.
From what Mike told him, swearing him to secrecy that would result, if breached, in his immediate and painful death, he is very glad that he didn't shave during his earlier shower. He takes a breath and slides her lips apart, feeling her practically thrum in anticipation under him, and pauses for a moment before gently, experimentally brushing the point of his stubbled chin against her clit.
Immediately she tightens under him, letting out a breathless cry, and he feels the first drop of pre-cum at the tip of his cock, in answer.
"Cold here?"
"Fuck yes," she pants, and he chuckles, drawing the tip of his tongue up and over the folds of her flesh, ending by driving it hard against her clit, and her legs tighten around his shoulders in answer.
--
She's just opened her mouth to attempt to ask him if he's done this before, without somehow implying that he's a nympho and a cheater who goes down on girls all the time, when he rubs his chin against her clit again, two fingers sliding up inside her, and everything, the embarrassment she'd always felt when even thinking about this, the shame that rose in her cheeks while she had felt his kisses stray lower and lower, is all washed away.
She had no idea that anything could ever feel this good, much less that Ned eating her out could feel this unspeakably erotic. She's always hated his kisses when his face isn't relatively freshly shaved; now she would get on her knees and return this favor if he'd promise to keep a five-o'clock shadow. He licks her clit and his stubble rasps against her sensitive flesh and she pants out a low rasping scream, her breasts aching for touch. Since his hands are otherwise occupied, and she'd never dream of asking him to do anything else, she rubs her palms over her nipples, feeling the firm tips drag against her skin, then pinches the tight rosy nubs between her nails just as he rubs his chin against her clit again and she arches, throwing her head back, her hips moving in restless arcs to meet the thrust of his fingers, still pinching and releasing her own nipples.
And then she can only feel his fingers, and she glances up, caught mid-pinch, to see him gazing at her, still kneeling between her thighs, her legs still wrapped tight around him. "I don't have enough hands for you?" he teases her gently.
She keeps watching his gaze as she cups her breasts, squeezing them before she pinches her nipples again, and his fingers ram hard between her thighs in answer, prompting a low chuckling gasp.
"Trust me," she whispers, helplessly grinding into his touch, "I'm not complaining."
He smiles. "Didn't sound like you were," he says, and he sounds very pleased with himself, even just a little surprised. She feels the need to ask him again, how he knows her body well enough to bring her to orgasm over and over again when her own attempts are never so satisfying, but she breaks off that train of thought with a moan, sinking back to the pillows as he slides his fingers out of her, tracing them up to lazily stroke her clit as he fills her with his tongue. She rests the balls of her thumbs against her nipples, then matches the rhythm of his fingertip against her clit, and soon she's bucking wildly under him, trembling with desire.
When he pauses she pants for breath, rolling her head from side to side in wordless pleading as he unlocks her legs, though he leaves her with a parting brush of his stubble that urges another cry from her. He pushes his jeans and boxers down and she watches, palms cupping her breasts, offering them to him as he pushes her knees apart and guides himself to her with a trembling hand.
Although she's been on the point of orgasm for what feels like weeks, the familiar fullness of his cock inside her draws it out even more, and they angle against each other, finding their rhythm. She locks her legs around him again, drawing her stockinged foot against his ass, and he shudders against her, one hand against her stomach with his thumb sliding between her lips as his other finds her still fondling her nipples. He lets out a soft hiss and buries the full length of his cock inside her, then brushes her clit, and she jerks up, writhing under him, completely in his power.
Then he settles his body over hers, pinning her under his weight, and fucks her. Every stroke, every thrust of his cock between her legs leaves him slick, his thumb worrying her oversensitive clit. The bedside lamp is still on; when she tilts her head back she can see into his face, her vision jumping, her entire body tightening in answer every time he drives his cock home. "God," she pants, squeezing her thighs tight, clenching him hard inside her as she begins to lose control, crying out as her hips jerk and thrust in powerless answer to the hard thrust of him inside her.
"I love you, I love you so much," she moans, shivering when he comes, feeling him pulse at the apex of one last long, brutal thrust. Her entire world has become the sensation of him sliding in and out of her, the rippling answer of her wet flesh to the brush of his thumb, the mounting waves of each orgasm as he made her come, over and over.
"I love you," he whispers, collapsing to her, her hands and his hand crushed between them. She slides her palms away and her breasts are pressed to his chest, sweat-slick skin, his heart thundering against hers.
It takes a long time for him to roll off her, but just before he does, she wraps her arm around him, keeping him on top of her, his cock still nestled warm between her legs. "Let's make a deal," she murmurs, eyes sparkling. "I'll keep shaving if you..." She runs the ball of her thumb against the point of his chin, the scent of her drying on his skin, still musky on his tongue. She tastes it when he kisses her, when his tongue plunges into her mouth, and she shivers at the memory.
Then he pulls back, so their mouths are just touching, and she can feel a grin on his lips.
"Deal."