jeevey
Rock n' Roll Doggie Band-aid
Part of my original idea about this fic was to explore with way people are changed and developed by physical relationships. If I was going to write sex (and I was) I wanted to make the sex absolutely foundational to the character development and plot arc. For that reason, the remaining chapters of this fic have no PG version. The story is IN the sex- I can't separate 'em. So for each of the remaining three chapters, I'll print as much here as I can, and you have to PM for the rest. The ending of the story is private message only as well- no resolution without it! For those of you who hope to enjoy fic anonymously, I promise I won't tell on you. And for those who are uncomfortable with explicit fic, all I can promise is that is the farthest possible thing from gratuitous sex. I hope I get some readers! Enjoy, everybody
This is the song for this chapter, not because I think either of them listened to it (though, maybe) but because it's my very favorite seduction song ever. Ever. "I want you to put on your pretty summer dress, wear your Easter bonnet and all the rest. And I want to make love to you, yes, when the healing has begun." Plus, you know, Van is Irish. Van Morrison - And The Healing Has Begun - YouTube
"Just give me a minute," Solvieg murmured as she slipped from his arms to open the door at the top of the stairs. "I think I left things kind of a mess." The sudden light stung his eyes. She disappeared into one of several doors on the left, and he was left to accustom to the brightness and study the flat. A long narrow chain of rooms, kitchen nearest and living room after, with a tall bank of windows on the far end. Bookshelves, an art print or two a clutter of resin statuary, a few tall halogen lamps. Formica table, worn sofa. It was a single person's flat, the kind place he'd never lived. His eyes fell on a pair of shoes by the door, much too big to be hers.
"Do you have a flat mate?" he called, suddenly wondering for the first time.
"She's at her boyfriend's tonight," she answered. "She usually does over the weekend."
He breathed a sigh of relief, not fancying fears of being overheard. Edge looked back down at the shoes again, then bent to remove his boots. He studied his stocking feet for a moment. There could be exciting things to do with socks, but he didn't intend to chance forgetting them and ending up in nothing but, like a complete wanker. He took them off and stowed them in the boot tops. When he stood up again she was leaning in the door way, the astonishing stretch of her bare legs nearly stopped his heart.
"Hey." she said softly. "Turn off that light behind you."
Edge paused in the sudden swimming darkness. Only a very faint square of light fell from the door of her room. It illuminated one side of her body, leaving the other half in darkness. Between them was impenetrable black. He paced carefully across the gulf, anchored by the cool touch of the floor on his feet. Just as he drew near she stepped out of reach, beckoning him inside. He saw a low white room with a slanted ceiling, a bed built near to the floor, a gardenia blooming in a window. A shallow clay lamp burning some clean smelling oil on a table, a tall pair of boots in the corner. A girl with gold-lit skin, waiting.
He stepped very close. She wore the same white camisole that had been demanding his eye all evening. The lamp behind made it translucent, the shadowed contours clearly visible underneath. He kissed her, then impatiently pulled her tight. Her true shape was startling without the bulk of winter clothes, a mix of soft and firm slopes that called his hands everywhere at once. After a moment he felt a tug at his buttons. He kept a firm grip on her backside but let go of the kiss and leaned back to give her room. Solvieg's eyes were fixed on the base of his neck, not her own fingers nimbly slipping buttons from their sockets. She didn't look away as she stripped the white shirt from his shoulders or pause when it dropped to the floor, but immediately went to work untucking his undershirt. He raised his arms for her remove it and watched, mesmerized, as she buried her face in his bare chest. Her knuckles moved like a breath over his ribs. She nuzzled and huffed lightly at the net of dark hair, and then burrowed to the skin beneath. He honestly couldn't recall the last time a woman had touched him like this. Not in the last cold years of his marriage, certainly not during the hasty drunken mess of Australia. She touched him agonizing slowness, meticulous care. His whole body tightened suddenly as her finger and thumb closed on his nipple"Christ," he muttered, and caught her hands roughly away.
This is the song for this chapter, not because I think either of them listened to it (though, maybe) but because it's my very favorite seduction song ever. Ever. "I want you to put on your pretty summer dress, wear your Easter bonnet and all the rest. And I want to make love to you, yes, when the healing has begun." Plus, you know, Van is Irish. Van Morrison - And The Healing Has Begun - YouTube
"Just give me a minute," Solvieg murmured as she slipped from his arms to open the door at the top of the stairs. "I think I left things kind of a mess." The sudden light stung his eyes. She disappeared into one of several doors on the left, and he was left to accustom to the brightness and study the flat. A long narrow chain of rooms, kitchen nearest and living room after, with a tall bank of windows on the far end. Bookshelves, an art print or two a clutter of resin statuary, a few tall halogen lamps. Formica table, worn sofa. It was a single person's flat, the kind place he'd never lived. His eyes fell on a pair of shoes by the door, much too big to be hers.
"Do you have a flat mate?" he called, suddenly wondering for the first time.
"She's at her boyfriend's tonight," she answered. "She usually does over the weekend."
He breathed a sigh of relief, not fancying fears of being overheard. Edge looked back down at the shoes again, then bent to remove his boots. He studied his stocking feet for a moment. There could be exciting things to do with socks, but he didn't intend to chance forgetting them and ending up in nothing but, like a complete wanker. He took them off and stowed them in the boot tops. When he stood up again she was leaning in the door way, the astonishing stretch of her bare legs nearly stopped his heart.
"Hey." she said softly. "Turn off that light behind you."
Edge paused in the sudden swimming darkness. Only a very faint square of light fell from the door of her room. It illuminated one side of her body, leaving the other half in darkness. Between them was impenetrable black. He paced carefully across the gulf, anchored by the cool touch of the floor on his feet. Just as he drew near she stepped out of reach, beckoning him inside. He saw a low white room with a slanted ceiling, a bed built near to the floor, a gardenia blooming in a window. A shallow clay lamp burning some clean smelling oil on a table, a tall pair of boots in the corner. A girl with gold-lit skin, waiting.
He stepped very close. She wore the same white camisole that had been demanding his eye all evening. The lamp behind made it translucent, the shadowed contours clearly visible underneath. He kissed her, then impatiently pulled her tight. Her true shape was startling without the bulk of winter clothes, a mix of soft and firm slopes that called his hands everywhere at once. After a moment he felt a tug at his buttons. He kept a firm grip on her backside but let go of the kiss and leaned back to give her room. Solvieg's eyes were fixed on the base of his neck, not her own fingers nimbly slipping buttons from their sockets. She didn't look away as she stripped the white shirt from his shoulders or pause when it dropped to the floor, but immediately went to work untucking his undershirt. He raised his arms for her remove it and watched, mesmerized, as she buried her face in his bare chest. Her knuckles moved like a breath over his ribs. She nuzzled and huffed lightly at the net of dark hair, and then burrowed to the skin beneath. He honestly couldn't recall the last time a woman had touched him like this. Not in the last cold years of his marriage, certainly not during the hasty drunken mess of Australia. She touched him agonizing slowness, meticulous care. His whole body tightened suddenly as her finger and thumb closed on his nipple"Christ," he muttered, and caught her hands roughly away.
