He props himself on the couch with his hands, boxing her in slightly as he moves that kiss from her lips down to her neck. Eventually, one hand curls around the back of her neck, fingers in her hair.
It's all she can do now to not simply grab him—just climb him like a tree, make him beg—but she wills herself to take her time. No need to rush. Particularly given that she was certainly not expecting matters to take this turn quite this quickly to begin with.
(Perhaps there's a familiarity to it? Something to consider later.)
She pulls off his tie now and goes for the buttons on his shirt.
The last thing on Sheehan's mind had been this moment. Even as her fingers flick open buttons, he's moved a hand to her knee, sliding it up her thigh. He didn't start the evening with this in mind - quite the opposite, actually. But he's been holding himself back from everything. From friendship, from companions, from anything resembling any sort of human connection. And the connections he's made have been hard won and hard fought. So having someone who he clicks with so easily, who is clever and witty and beautiful - that's tipped the scales for him. There wasn't a decision to actually make.
She makes a low noise of approval in her throat at the touch to her leg and trails her fingers lightly across his chest. And then, just to make things a little easier for him whenever he decides to go for the zipper at the back of her dress, she reaches over her shoulder and quickly unfastens the hook at the back of the collar. One of those details people get stuck on, sometimes.
Then she's touching him again, pushing the shirt back from his shoulders.
He's still got a few bruises here and there after his training with Dimitri, but they're faded or small or otherwise not noticed. He pulls back, sliding off the shirt and letting it fall.
Thank god for her foresight, though. That hook is far too fiddly for his fumbling fingers at the moment, but he slides his hand along the inside of her thigh again, hitching her dress up to her hips. First things first, then zipper.
"I most certainly do not want you to stop," she says, smiling. "In other words, to be sure that we're clear: keep going."
And just in case there was even the remotest question, she takes his hand and slides it further up, to where his fingertips will find smooth silk under her dress.
Well, that's certainly a signal that cannot and should not be misinterpreted. He brushes his thumb along the silky fabric, grinning as he loops a finger around the hem to pull it down.
"Now who was doing the planning, hm?" he asks as he pulls away and sinks down to his knees.
"What can I say? I like to be ready for anything," she says. She lets her knees fall open slightly, watching him, her gaze heavy-lidded. She reaches down and trails her fingers along his jawline.
"Anything, huh?" He hikes her dress up to her hips and pulls that silk down and off, drawing her hips close to him so he can press a kiss to the inside of her thigh.
"Anything." A small, breathy laugh; her fingers trail through his hair with just a fleeting suggestion of a tug. Not quite a don't-keep-me-waiting, because she's enjoying the teasing. For now.
And he enjoys doing the teasing. He takes his time, gently guiding her down closer to the edge of the couch. His nose presses against soft skin, tasting her once with his tongue.
Sheehan is a very good listener. He adjusts himself slightly on his knees, making himself comfortable, and joins fingers to tongue, listening for all of those lovely, encouraging sounds.
Oh he's good. She'll never tell him, but generally she hasn't got the highest expectations for American men of his vintage. He's exceeding them very well.
Her legs go around his shoulders and then her back arches; she cries out sharply and lets out a long, satisfied groan.
Yes. That'll do nicely. She laughs, low in her throat.
When she's caught her breath, she sits up and leans in to kiss him. "Pleased with yourself, are you?" She slides her hand down his chest, then lower, brushing the front of his trousers to discover what's there and tease him a little as well.
He sits up, brushing a thumb across her lips and humming a bit. "I don't know," he says, eyes flicking down to her hand where he knows he's already aching. "Figured I earned it."
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It's all she can do now to not simply grab him—just climb him like a tree, make him beg—but she wills herself to take her time. No need to rush. Particularly given that she was certainly not expecting matters to take this turn quite this quickly to begin with.
(Perhaps there's a familiarity to it? Something to consider later.)
She pulls off his tie now and goes for the buttons on his shirt.
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She makes a low noise of approval in her throat at the touch to her leg and trails her fingers lightly across his chest. And then, just to make things a little easier for him whenever he decides to go for the zipper at the back of her dress, she reaches over her shoulder and quickly unfastens the hook at the back of the collar. One of those details people get stuck on, sometimes.
Then she's touching him again, pushing the shirt back from his shoulders.
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Thank god for her foresight, though. That hook is far too fiddly for his fumbling fingers at the moment, but he slides his hand along the inside of her thigh again, hitching her dress up to her hips. First things first, then zipper.
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Lucky for both of them that she decided on the good lingerie this evening, she thinks, with no small amount of hilarity.
"You seem to have a plan," she murmurs against his lips.
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"I most certainly do not want you to stop," she says, smiling. "In other words, to be sure that we're clear: keep going."
And just in case there was even the remotest question, she takes his hand and slides it further up, to where his fingertips will find smooth silk under her dress.
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"Now who was doing the planning, hm?" he asks as he pulls away and sinks down to his knees.
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"What can I say? I like to be ready for anything," she says. She lets her knees fall open slightly, watching him, her gaze heavy-lidded. She reaches down and trails her fingers along his jawline.
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"Anything." A small, breathy laugh; her fingers trail through his hair with just a fleeting suggestion of a tug. Not quite a don't-keep-me-waiting, because she's enjoying the teasing. For now.
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"I think I can do anything," he murmurs.
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She shivers at the touch and there's a noise halfway between a sigh and a moan.
"Well, go on then," she says. "Show me."
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It does mean he is far too occupied to reply.
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As if she was going to complain about that. She sighs and leans back, murmuring soft encouragement as he finds the touches she likes best.
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Oh he's good. She'll never tell him, but generally she hasn't got the highest expectations for American men of his vintage. He's exceeding them very well.
Her legs go around his shoulders and then her back arches; she cries out sharply and lets out a long, satisfied groan.
Yes. That'll do nicely. She laughs, low in her throat.
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He uses his free hand to stroke the outside of her leg with gentle fingers, pulling away after that laugh. He grins, peering up at her with a smirk.
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When she's caught her breath, she sits up and leans in to kiss him. "Pleased with yourself, are you?" She slides her hand down his chest, then lower, brushing the front of his trousers to discover what's there and tease him a little as well.
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"Earned it and then some," she says, her touch now a little firmer and more insistent. "Why don't you sit back and let me take care of you, hm?"
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"Mind if I get up off my knees?"
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"Make yourself comfortable, darling." She lets him go and leans back, so that he can sit where he pleases.
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