don't wake the baby. / monet
her back hits the bed without much decorum and were she not aware of her own want contributing to it, she'd almost say she were tossed there â monet follows her down, and the manner in which she does makes jubes feel hunted. cornered beneath her weight, with teeth nipping at her jaw. it isn't a bad thing, heart a jackrabbit in her chest, carrying a kinetic buzz beneath the skin ; more aware of it where fingers trail down her abdomen, hungry, searching. monet is perfect. she doesn't fumble. knows exactly where the button of her shorts are and undoes them with ease. jubes' body knows the moves by now, the dance they've settled into time and again â raises her hips with two-fold purpose. let the denim be slid down her legs, searching for that uninhibited pressure at her core that promises to follow. it's a promise that has her loosing a moan when those teeth find her neck.
they're all threat until they're not. the hands that grip her thighs are rough but the baring of teeth relinquished to warm, wet lips instead are anything but â if jubes wanted to pick a fight, scare her off, she'd say it were affection. sympathy for the punctures they're laid over. she doesn't say it, not in so much as a choked breath that breaks partway through into a needy preening, louder than even she intended. as though any of this is intended, planned. never is. just happens. she likes her life spontaneous, doesn't she? doesn't know why this gets her head in such a spin when she's so used to rolling with the punches otherwise.
doesn't matter right now. not a single coherent thought for her to grasp onto, except the awareness of the woman above her, the shape of her, the overwhelmingly expensive smell of her perfume and her shampoo. like the way digits climb upwards, tease all that bold ambition and ruthlessness that she knows monet takes it with over top what fabric remains. it should be embarrassing, the reaction it gets out of her when they're not even to the main show ; the slipping of her name off her lips alongside a slew of curses that would probably make logan shudder, but she's already hot, burning, and if any of that flush can be attributed to that, there's no telling. she could get lost in the feeling, the feeling of being wanted and had and worked in a way that makes her feel known.
could, if not for monet's more annoying tendencies that remind her of herself. of who they are to each other. it might very well just be a game for her, has the thought enough to clamp her free hand over her mouth the same time she slides the fabric of her underwear aside and thumbs at the bundle of nerves unabated. her bad for showing some appreciation, jeez. in the end, though, she should be grateful for the skin that catches the exclamation that the action gets, the foresight M has. she does not have to be grateful, however, for the taunting reminder, pressed close to her ear with the teeth back: don't wake the baby. clenches her jaw beneath the firm grip but the discomfort is lost on her beneath everything else.
she doesn't know how the roll of her eyes is perceived, can't say herself it's entirely one or the other, pleasure or irritation, but it doesn't matter. she's hazy with the amount of her that's in the room, commands the space, and the only lick she can get in is in her thoughts, which she will presume monet's nosy self is listening in on, 'should let me have a shot at it. see how you manage, princess.' a lot of work to get monet here, to the point jubes is at now, but she can be persistent. finally finds her head enough to fix the other with a challenging gaze. she can be just as good, if not better than this. might be her hand over monet's stupid, audacious, pretty mouth then.
