Date: 2018-03-14 02:42 am (UTC)
originallutece: up on the moors (flirt; romance book cover 2.0)
[This, now, she can melt into. There's no one here to see them, and so Rosalind braces one arm against the wall and arches her back, pushing her breasts into his waiting hands, grinding her hips back at the same time. She won't let him fuck her out here, but there's no harm in a bit of touching.

Besides: they're still close enough to the tavern she can hear voices. Snatches of conversation, individual words and barks of laughter . . . and though she'd hate the reality, oh, god, but the thought of someone walking out here and catching them makes her melt. Him with his hands all over her, under her shirt or shoving up her skirt, claiming her no matter who was there to see . . . god, and she pants as she grinds her hips back again, rocking against him.]


I hardly-- ah-- I hardly see how my obeying you renders me into something bad. You told me to slap you, Jamie. I was only being good. Isn't that what you want?

[It's a drawling voice, baiting and teasing, as she glances back to try and catch his eye.]

Tell me-- [she says, and it's most definitely deliberately framed as an order] -- why is it you think you're allowed to order me around and not vice-versa? Bossy thing, didn't anyone ever tell you that's not how you get a woman to like you?

[She says, squirming eagerly against him, but at least she's aware of it.]
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ᴊᴀᴍɪᴇ "ᴍʏ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ɪs ᴛᴏᴏ ʟᴏɴɢ" ғʀᴀsᴇʀ

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