There is no thought in Godfrey greater than the warmth of his skin, the curve of his hip as he feels his trousers pull taut and then slacken as they shift down the back of his thighs, the slip of his hair between his fingers. The way the curve of his ass feels beneath his thick and calloused hand. He would live in the way his tongue slides against his if he could, in that glassy thrill contained in the very moment before Godfrey gives himself to the sensation, in the ambitious handful he grasps of his exposed rear.
Godfrey, naturally, takes longer to become aware of his own hunger. Gale's weight against him, hot and eager, seems nearly too much as it is; he's content to run his hand across him for the moment, up the curve of his backbone, running beneath his clothing. Urgency tenses in his other hand now; strands of dark hair wound in his fingers as he groans against his lips, takes a harsh breath through his nose to taste his tongue. Desperate to feed the moment all that he has.
Until it is that Gale's mouth is no longer against his, he has been content to fit his body to Gale's and feel his warmth through the rough homespun of his shirt. Godfrey's stomach flutters to feel Gale's hand against it, muscle tensing below his fingers. This is when he realizes his impatience - and also, as his lashes flutter, that he's right.
A slow, dozy smile comes to his lips, breathless with gentle laughter. He sighs his name to break his impatience, and kisses him - slow, deliberate - to suffocate the impatience.
Then, he leans back against the cushions, and lifts the bottom hem of his shirt over his head. Beneath it is hard muscle twitching below his skin with the small effort of pulling his wrists from his sleeves. A handful of thin and superficial training scars mar his flushing chest like pale thread.
Godfrey leaves the empty shirt in a wrinkled heap above his head, lips parted, staring up at Gale as he rests on his elbows.
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There is no thought in Godfrey greater than the warmth of his skin, the curve of his hip as he feels his trousers pull taut and then slacken as they shift down the back of his thighs, the slip of his hair between his fingers. The way the curve of his ass feels beneath his thick and calloused hand. He would live in the way his tongue slides against his if he could, in that glassy thrill contained in the very moment before Godfrey gives himself to the sensation, in the ambitious handful he grasps of his exposed rear.
Godfrey, naturally, takes longer to become aware of his own hunger. Gale's weight against him, hot and eager, seems nearly too much as it is; he's content to run his hand across him for the moment, up the curve of his backbone, running beneath his clothing. Urgency tenses in his other hand now; strands of dark hair wound in his fingers as he groans against his lips, takes a harsh breath through his nose to taste his tongue. Desperate to feed the moment all that he has.
Until it is that Gale's mouth is no longer against his, he has been content to fit his body to Gale's and feel his warmth through the rough homespun of his shirt. Godfrey's stomach flutters to feel Gale's hand against it, muscle tensing below his fingers. This is when he realizes his impatience - and also, as his lashes flutter, that he's right.
A slow, dozy smile comes to his lips, breathless with gentle laughter. He sighs his name to break his impatience, and kisses him - slow, deliberate - to suffocate the impatience.
Then, he leans back against the cushions, and lifts the bottom hem of his shirt over his head. Beneath it is hard muscle twitching below his skin with the small effort of pulling his wrists from his sleeves. A handful of thin and superficial training scars mar his flushing chest like pale thread.
Godfrey leaves the empty shirt in a wrinkled heap above his head, lips parted, staring up at Gale as he rests on his elbows.
Then, his eyes drift downward. ]