skintight.
She can feel his fingers (fuck, they're cold) tracing the curve of her hips, and the little voice in the back of her mind, that little piece of pure 'girl' tells her to give in to his advances, just for tonight.
They don't get the chance very often, the paperworks almost never done, piling up in the nooks and in the crannies like a fort, or there's someone, something out there terrorizing the city. She slips a finger behind his head, rubs the space between his lower ear and head, where the skin is soft and she knows he likes it. The sound he makes, low and long, makes her giggle, but her own laugh fades fast, her fingers retract and she's touching the place beneath her chin and the skin around her hips, pulling at it, inspecting it, wondering if it should feel like this, stretch this way.
These moments come on sometimes, when he hits certain spots and her mind jumps about wondering if he judges the way her skin feels there, if he hates it. If he hates her.
His fingers find hers, pull them away from her own body, and place them to his chest (the spot opposite his heart, because he tends to confuse his right from his left). He weaves his fingers around hers, over and over. He kisses the tips of her fingertips, and he watches and waits for the smile to cross her face and when it doesn't, the corners of his mouth and his eyes turn down.
"Sal-?" He asks, his eyebrows raising. She pulls her attention to him, watches as he unravels their fingers and trace the purple spots beneath her eyes that her few hours of sleep could not cover. "You okay?"
"Mmhm," she nods, pushing his fingers away with a light touch, "I'm good, really, I'm fine." She adds the last part, because he's giving her that look, his usual -I'm-not-taking-that-bullshit face he usually reserves for her ('I get it Sal, your a princess, and I may not get everything you do, but I'm still here, when you need me.')
She wants to tell him ('Sonic, I'm not comfortable with myself... With me. I know you see me a certain (good) way, but I just... I can't see myself...'), wants to curl back into his arms and press her lips to his, never taking a breath, never stopping, just living on the feeling of him next to her, his breath hot on her lips.
Sally's arms press against his chest, "I've some work to do. Maybe another time?" She sees the look that crosses his face, a mixture of suspicion and curious. His mouth opens as he prepares to respond, but he closes it a moment after, for once, at a lost for words. He sighs, his chest exhaling until it's flat against his ribs. Slowly, he slides his body from the desk, taking a number of papers beneath him, along for the ride.
She laughs later, but for now she offers a kiss on his cheek, bidding a promise of another day for such adventures (atop her work desk no less, but well it's Sonic, and if he wants to be romanticly active on the desk, they'll be romanticly active on the desk. That's just how it works and always would work).
But now, watching him walk away turning once or twice to watch her over his shoulder, she doesn't know what to say, what to do. She doesn't want to feel the warmth of his hands, the heat of his body, or hear the sound of his heart beating in time with hers. She wants him far, far away from her, where he can't feel the skin that sits so tightly to her body, her curves.
She wants him to love her, but not yet. When she's perfect, when everything sits just right, that's when she'll be ready.