There's an old record spinning in the background, an almost distant hum; not quite from the next room but perhaps from the parlor beyond, given how faint it is. It's a tune she doesn't quite recognize which means this disc was probably found by Vi.
A soft pant.
Caitlyn's hands pause in their writing and almost instantly there's the quietest hint of a whine hastily gulped down the back of Vi's throat.
“Darling,” she says. “You know there's no shame in asking for what you want.”
Vi's glare is baleful but there is no anger behind it, more of a pout than a scowl, more of a plea than a threat.
“m'fine,” Vi mutters. “You said you had work.”
Caitlyn doesn't jostle her. That would be immature and spiteful and she is neither of those things, the love of her life sunk deep on her cock, doing her very best to pretend this is all she wants and that she wouldn't rather Caitlyn be fucking her senseless right now.
So Caitlyn hums instead and continues working on the report. It is, admittedly, rather distracting because Vi is soft and warm, so goddamn hot and wet and perfectly tight, clenching on the hexstrap like she thinks Caitlyn won't notice.
Caitlyn does.
Of course she does.
But she's had practice; frankly, she's no less stubborn and perhaps hates losing even more than her beautiful wife.
“I did,” she says after a while, pen stopping again.
Vi's eyes light up at the usage of past tense.
Caitlyn can feel the squirm of disappointment when she reaches for the next sheet, as the candle begins to burn lower.
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