Bethas 16, 2720 - After Midnight
Cerise let the thought go with something like a laugh at her own expense. Like she was any better at it; she'd proven that well enough. How could she be upset with Em anyway when he was oh-so-helpfully putting his hands on every bit of her he could reach? It was, quite factually, close to impossible. He knew it, too; of that she was certain.
"Me too," she agreed; short and simple. Too short for her voice to catch on it, before she pressed her mouth so eagerly to the line of his jaw. Pulled him in closer, so she didn't have the space to think about anything else. Another time she might have argued, but wasn't it clear enough that it was true?
Em didn't leave her much opportunity to complain either. "Hmm, is that—" So, she might have said, if it hadn't gotten swallowed up by the sound she made into his mouth when he kissed her again. They didn't need to work over that any more than they already had right now, anyway. There was time for conversation later.
She might have been happy to linger like that for—well, if not forever, than for a rather long while. Lost in all the things she could only half-remember—the taste of his mouth (it was funny, she hadn't smoked in so long, and there it was, those cigarettes she bought), the feel of all him warm and close to her, that touch that was neither teasing nor particularly delicate anymore. A different soap, maybe, but underneath that there was the bar and there was Em—burnt just a little around the edges still.
Emiel had other ideas, evidently. He shifted, and she was happy to let him. For a moment he was over her, and that she could have lingered in, too. Damn McAllister again, because Cerise wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around him and hold him right where he was, but there were burns there now. How irritating. And see? He escaped her straight off, working his way elsewhere.
Not, it had to be admitted, that she minded in the least. Quite the opposite, really. Conversation was on hold, but she did her best to be communicative in other ways. Some of it was even vocal, although the only parts resembling anything like words were shaped into his name. That, she thought, would get the message across. If not, there was the tangle of her fingers in his hair and the way she arched up to meet him. Helpfully, she thought. She had said she could be helpful. Surely this counted?