November 4: Cliche Pt. 12

[kinetic_elaboration]

More ‘cliche.’ Previous parts on that tag. This fic is rated E for sexual content. Seriously.

~670 words, ~20 minutes

 

This is not the greatest pleasure she has ever experienced in her life, but it is the greatest intimacy. She can feel the warmth of his skin beneath her palm and when she looks down, she can see the obscene way his head disappears under her skirt. His thumb slides over her clit, and the touch makes her jump again: it’s such a strong, decided pressure against such a sensitive place.

And it’s Tom touching her. Tom actually touching her. Tom who can see her now in the shadowy darkness under her clothes, who can see her better than she’s ever seen herself, wetness glistening among folds. 

She tries to picture him again as he looks while driving his car, while sitting across from her at a restaurant, while sitting on his couch. Just normal. Just Tom as he always is. The same boy who jokes with her about The Prince and other dictators, who puts his arm around her shoulder, who can be considerate and even kind. But he’s also the first boy who’s ever touched her between her legs and he feels so confident at it, as his thumb runs over her again, finding a sort of rhythm. The sensation builds but she’s also become more used to it, able to ride it like the wave it is.

He doesn’t touch her like she touches herself. The movement of his thumb, now his fingers—she feels him switch between the two like he’s trying out angles—it’s faster and shorter than what she usually does. But how would he know? How many, many ways there are to touch this tiny spot that feels so goddamn good. 

She watches him shuffle a little closer, a little forward on his knees, and then she feels him kiss her inner thigh again. His hot breath on her skin. He’s so close to her cunt, nuzzling there just at the very top of her thigh like he’s afraid to go any higher, or like he needs her confirmation that he can. She hardly has words. She tries to mumble some sort of “Yeah” or “Yes,” tries to urge him on with a roll of her hips. The incoherent white noise buzzing at the edges of her brain is telling her more, more, more. Asking her what his tongue would feel like. Burning with curiosity about his tongue.

Her stupid underwear still in the way. But she doesn’t want to stop to take it off, to unlace her boots or struggle with them still on, to have to think too much when Tom’s already under her skirt, his fingers slick against her and the exhales of his breath something she can see and feel and hear. He pushes her underwear more firmly aside again. Then he kisses her clit.

Bare, skin to skin, the strange softness of his mouth and then a lick, almost tentative, with the tip of his tongue.

She swears low under her breath. That, she thinks, in some far-off part of her brain where coherency still lives, was the weirdest sensation of her life. So wet. So soft, compared to his fingers or her own. Weirdly electric, but so gentle. A slippery, gliding, warm sensation as he starts licking her again and again, first quickly, then, as if he’s forcing himself to slow down, with long, wide strokes. 

She grabs on harder to his shoulder, and lets her other hand fall back so that she can lean all her weight on it. Her torso stretches back, her head falls back, and her hips cant forward. 

She wishes she could see them both from the outside. This position feels—so beautiful somehow. And Tom, on his knees, half-hidden beneath her skirt. Beautiful somehow too.

She’s never been more attracted to him than she is right now.

Such a simple thought, such clarity. 

She wants him so much, like this. She wants to take him all in. She wants to see all of him. She wants all of him.