[ She feels him tremble against her and she feels pleased to elicit such a response, laughing with him — never at — into the kiss. She murmurs something like mmhmm when he tells her to wait, tipping her head to kiss at his jawline before he captures her lips again as they turn, savouring the softness of it and the way he smells like soap. Woodsy, a little, even if she knows he's showered off the gravesmoke. Fucking intoxicating — or maybe that's just Dean and her being so into him. When he breaks the kiss, she can't help chasing after it on his way down and she thinks hey, that's my move but then it clicks that they're slowing down for a reason and she blinks her way back to focus.
Granted, it's hard to focus when he's sitting there like that and looking up at her, so at ease with himself and with sharing his space with her, and God, his eyes. Beverly smiles as he reaches for her hand, skin tingling where he brushes the pad of his thumb over it. It's such a little thing but so painfully tender, it tempers the heat a little. And then — ]
I know. [ Soft, sweet. She lifts his hand to her lips, kissing his knuckles, murmuring against them. ] I want to, though. If that's okay.
[ She thinks a lot about that first time. Not just the way they burned for each other but the care in each brush of their hands and lips — is this okay; if it gets too much, we don't have to — and it's present here too, of course it is, it always is. It's only been a few months since their relationship turned intimate, physical, and even with most nights spent wrapped in each others' arms they're still learning how to read the moments in between the pounding heartbeats. Yes, she came to him in his room; yes, he kissed her back, whispered desires into her ear, but if the hunt left him more tired than he realised, Beverly wouldn't mind putting the brakes on this until morning. Until whenever. No shame, no awkwardness, no misgivings. The understanding is why they work and why she trusts him more than she has any man in her bed; she only wants to give him as much as he gives her.
Beverly leans down and kisses him again: forehead, cheekbone, the shell of his ear where she whispers, ] Just tell me what you like.
[ Because it's been a while and this is one of the first times she's actually wanted to do this. Like, really, really wants to do this. She slides the towel from around his neck and drops it to the floor; the robe's next, pushed back just enough to bare his shoulders to her wandering mouth — already trailing down the side of his throat, the slope where it meets the rise of his deltoid, his tattoo again until she can't bend over any more and has to kneel (on the towel, good thinking, Bev).
She doesn't touch him yet. Wants to draw this out. Her hands rest on his thighs instead, brushing back and forth as she tips her chin up to kiss him again, searing and slow with a slip of tongue; sometimes she trails her nails lightly up his sides, back down, ghosting his inner thighs, kissing him all the while. There's a thrill in making him feel good, making him unravel, and she's discovered the little things that earn his gasps. She wants to find more, explore him as he's explored her, helped her relearn her own body and enjoy it. He deserves that too. ]
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Granted, it's hard to focus when he's sitting there like that and looking up at her, so at ease with himself and with sharing his space with her, and God, his eyes. Beverly smiles as he reaches for her hand, skin tingling where he brushes the pad of his thumb over it. It's such a little thing but so painfully tender, it tempers the heat a little. And then — ]
I know. [ Soft, sweet. She lifts his hand to her lips, kissing his knuckles, murmuring against them. ] I want to, though. If that's okay.
[ She thinks a lot about that first time. Not just the way they burned for each other but the care in each brush of their hands and lips — is this okay; if it gets too much, we don't have to — and it's present here too, of course it is, it always is. It's only been a few months since their relationship turned intimate, physical, and even with most nights spent wrapped in each others' arms they're still learning how to read the moments in between the pounding heartbeats. Yes, she came to him in his room; yes, he kissed her back, whispered desires into her ear, but if the hunt left him more tired than he realised, Beverly wouldn't mind putting the brakes on this until morning. Until whenever. No shame, no awkwardness, no misgivings. The understanding is why they work and why she trusts him more than she has any man in her bed; she only wants to give him as much as he gives her.
Beverly leans down and kisses him again: forehead, cheekbone, the shell of his ear where she whispers, ] Just tell me what you like.
[ Because it's been a while and this is one of the first times she's actually wanted to do this. Like, really, really wants to do this. She slides the towel from around his neck and drops it to the floor; the robe's next, pushed back just enough to bare his shoulders to her wandering mouth — already trailing down the side of his throat, the slope where it meets the rise of his deltoid, his tattoo again until she can't bend over any more and has to kneel (on the towel, good thinking, Bev).
She doesn't touch him yet. Wants to draw this out. Her hands rest on his thighs instead, brushing back and forth as she tips her chin up to kiss him again, searing and slow with a slip of tongue; sometimes she trails her nails lightly up his sides, back down, ghosting his inner thighs, kissing him all the while. There's a thrill in making him feel good, making him unravel, and she's discovered the little things that earn his gasps. She wants to find more, explore him as he's explored her, helped her relearn her own body and enjoy it. He deserves that too. ]