MECHANIKI

The two of you have been together for two months now, and you know that her back arches when you press at a certain place on her back, rake your nails over it. You know that kissing her pulse point, on the underside of her jaw, makes her tense and hum, a high, breathy sound you think you could get addicted to quite quickly. You even know that her breasts, swelling to fill out the modest lingerie she had blushingly asked you to make for her, are firm and sensitive--even brushing them through her shirt makes her breath hitch. But you do not know her, not completely--you do not know how the apex between her thighs tastes, you do not know how she would react if you ran your hand up the inside of one of those thighs (pale and marble and delicious under skirts of your own design). You want to know, though. You are too polite to say so, but you would honestly like nothing more than to make love to Rose, explore the parts of her body you haven't yet seen. But you're too goddamned polite to say so, and you find yourself slipping a hand between your legs far too often to be considered normal. It's a day like any other, after you recover from your vivid dreams--get up, dress, otherwise prepare yourself for the day, taking your time. Eat something while attempting to locate your other shoe. Open your husktop, log onto Trollian, ask Rose if she's ready for you to come over. She rises early, and you never have to wait more than ten seconds for a positive response. So you go to her block, kiss her hello, linger in the doorway for a few moments over each other's lips, and eventually retreat back into her room. Sometimes the two of you venture out, socialize or what have you, but today you both opt for curling up in the same oversized armchair, reading from the same novel. She holds the book on upturned knees, and you hold her with one arm around her waist as she leans comfortably against you. Occasionally one of you will read a paragraph out loud, ones that you particularly enjoy. It's at the end of a chapter that she closes the book with no warning, setting it aside and cuddling closer to you. You smile and hold her in both your arms. "Bored of reading?" you ask, and she nods against your shoulder. You stay there like that until she raises her head. "Kiss me," she murmurs, almost sighing out the words as she leans closer to you, and who are you to deny her? You kiss her most sweetly, holding her close, tasting the uniqueness of her lips--and you are happy, so happy, even more so when she traces over your bottom lip with her tongue. And then it's turning into that kind of kissing, the kind that makes your spine tingle and your stomach flip, the kind where she's shifting to straddle you and push you back against the chair, crushing your mouths together and sliding her hands from your shoulders to your breasts. That kind of kissing, the kind that makes you want her so badly you can barely move.