Lover to Lover
eight: lips, sweet nothings, soft murmurings
You Reach Me
He found it strangely empowering how in control she was and how free he felt.
Her lips were one of the most brazen things Raven had ever had the chance to taste. Her softness under her cold exterior, the gentle warmth that lingered when they'd part always – inevitably – seemed to catch him off guard. Or perhaps, he just wasn't quite as attuned to her as he thought; perhaps his guard had never been up to begin with. Or, perhaps, she was far too intoxicating for him to understand her true complexity; perhaps her soft lips had always been meant to be his undoing and there was no logic to it.
Particularly at night, when he'd turn off his lamp-light and turn his head just slightly to the side so he could plant a delicate kiss on her forehead in arrivederci, those were the nights when he'd feel surprised the most. She'd shift in the warm sheets, stretching up on an arm to return his offer. It was charming, the way she did it; her movements were slow and cautious, her breathing calm and quiet against his chest. It was as if she were waiting for a message for a continuance. Usually, Raven met her half way instead, catching her upper lip between his, hands twining together where they settled comfortably on the warm part of her lower back where her shirt rode up to reveal soft and unmarked skin... but... sometimes she took the initiative. She was much slower in her show of affection, dilatory, yet deceitfully thorough. Every movement she made had purpose, every weight proportioned just right, every breath carefully planned to meet a part of his skin and make him flutter. One hand would waver nervously over his whirring heart, the other would remove the band from his hair and brush aging strands out of veiled cyan eyes.
She was meticulous, careful, a butterfly weary of a southern breeze. A kiss, innocent lips covering his own. And then, shifted weight to cover them both, blankets following, always following; she conformed to his body rather perfectly, her coverings cementing them in where the gaps tended to linger the most. A hand would caress the stubble along his jaw, soft finger-pads tracing an outline all the way to the nape of his neck and back again. He mirrored her, simply tracing her figure in the darkness while she pressed near for him to breathe her in.
He said her name, sometimes. Rita. Partly because it was beautiful to say. Rita... Partly because he wanted her to hear him when she drew close enough for sweet, sweet nothings. Rita . . . Partly because he liked the way her name rolled off his tongue and onto her own. Partly because he didn't need an explanation. Partly because she was free to do how she pleased. He could always feel the indentation of a smile press against his skin, the way her chest rose and fell with breath, the curl in her toes against his shins. That smile held an unspoken secret, something knowing and wise beyond her years.
It was simply remarkable, he found, how much her lips said when she never said a word.