No. 204971
[This was supposed to be more porny but then my attempts at humour took over.]
He'd never given them up before. The closest he'd ever gotten was throwing them in the box at one of the many "dances" he'd been at during his career. But then he always got them back when it was done. This time, not so much.
Not that he was complaining. In fact, he thought they'd never looked better than they did right now, strung around Laura's neck and falling between her bare breasts. There was really only one problem with this scenario. Scratch that, two problems. Problem one: she was still wearing her pants (the root of this problem was that she had pants on in the first place, rather than the usual skirt). Problem two: she was also standing out of his reach.
"You going to keep waltzing or are you going to sit down and…not talk?" he asked, his smile proof that the fight being quoted was long put behind them.
She laughed.
"Is that a yes?"
Her hands gave them his answer, as they began to unfasten her pants. A few moments later and all the rest of clothing fell to the ground. Gracefully – much too gracefully for the action (though again he wasn't complaining, it's just that he wouldn't have looked half as good doing it) – she stepped out of them and finally starting getting closer to where he sat on the couch.
He stood up, pulling her close. His right hand found itself travelling along the chain, down to the metal tags. They were cool to the touch but he doubted that was going to last long.
All doubts melted away as she kissed him deeply and pushed her body up against his, reminding him that he still had far too many clothes on himself. Laura was quick to help with that, her fingers deftly undoing the many buttons on his jacket and making fast work of them – by now, she'd had lots of practice. Within moments his jacket fell to the ground and he pulled his tanks over his head. His pants and briefs pooled around his ankles and, as expected, he stumbled a bit getting out of them.
Finally, skin rubbed against skin. Bill groaned at the feeling, he would never get enough of it. Never get enough of her.
His mouth made a path down her jaw then downwards, his tongue dipping into the hollow of her throat, lapping at her flesh. She tasted so good. His arms wrapped around her body, one hand near her neck, the other at the small of her back. All the while her ragged breath filled his ears and her own hands trailed down along his scar, lower and lower. His hips jerked in anticipation.
The metal tags, warming up fast, were trapped between their bodies.
One important decision lay before now: location. Location, location, location. The desk was covered in paperwork. The water pressure in the shower had been wonky all week. And the couch, well, he'd had enough of the couch.
She shifted to suck on his earlob, before whispering "Why don't we try someplace we haven't been for awhile?"
He pulled back enough to see her face, fingers still toying with his own dog tags – though now they might as well be hers. "The rack?"
She smiled. "The rack."
[Special thanks to Home Improvement for coming up with the final joke for me to steal/pay homage to.]