It is exactly what it has to be, impulsive but still important. The house groans around them in the breeze, shrinking as the sun touches the tops of the trees outside. They can't stay here, or: he won't make them. She holds the back of his neck and he presses his fingers to the line of her jaw, thumb stilled curled around to the front of her throat, a gesture more possessive than entrapping.
He can just as easily push her away with it, if the contact becomes too much. No one has to do anything, but it doesn't feel so different from the brush of their hands together, or her grip on his arms as he followed her exhausted into the water.
They can still do that. They can slink across the path and have a bath in the tub, but he'd almost rather go to the spring, not have to clean up the rest of Casey's things and feel like he was carrying on momentum from the moment before he was lost. His other hand finally uncurls from her shirt, just to lay flat, palm and wrist set between her breasts and fingers carrying up her sternum, just barely touching the dip of her collar. It's been awhile since he last kissed a woman, but it isn't strange, or any different from how he'd kiss a man. He kisses how he kisses: steady, and searching, pulling back when she pushes and pushing when she pulls back.
On one such push, he kisses her head back, chin up enough for him to tilt and press the next just under her jaw, murmuring as he trails them back along its line to kiss more of her throat: "We don't have to do this in here." This had been his best idea of a place to grieve alone: it's a terrible place to do it with someone else.
no subject
He can just as easily push her away with it, if the contact becomes too much. No one has to do anything, but it doesn't feel so different from the brush of their hands together, or her grip on his arms as he followed her exhausted into the water.
They can still do that. They can slink across the path and have a bath in the tub, but he'd almost rather go to the spring, not have to clean up the rest of Casey's things and feel like he was carrying on momentum from the moment before he was lost. His other hand finally uncurls from her shirt, just to lay flat, palm and wrist set between her breasts and fingers carrying up her sternum, just barely touching the dip of her collar. It's been awhile since he last kissed a woman, but it isn't strange, or any different from how he'd kiss a man. He kisses how he kisses: steady, and searching, pulling back when she pushes and pushing when she pulls back.
On one such push, he kisses her head back, chin up enough for him to tilt and press the next just under her jaw, murmuring as he trails them back along its line to kiss more of her throat: "We don't have to do this in here." This had been his best idea of a place to grieve alone: it's a terrible place to do it with someone else.