Variations on a theme: Makoto
Prompt #37: Eyes
Rating: M
The first thing he ever said to her was – "You have these really amazing eyes-" and she remembered thinking that of all the clichés a guy could fish up, this one had to top the list. She was not one for clichés, and all for first impressions, and she remembered feeling just a little disappointed that he wasn't going to make the cut. But it was a slow night, and she was feeling a bit lonely, so she sat and let him steer the conversation. She could so be polite and charming when it pleased her, thank you very much. She felt his skin brush hers, the edges of calluses on his fingers. It was a calculated move, of course. There was not a bit of spontaneity in his touch. All the same, it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
He earned a wry smile for his trouble. What a good sport.
She found him there a few weeks later. Or rather, he found her. He caught her around the waist when what felt like a stampede of bachelorettes shouldered her into the bar. She'd wondered if she would run into him again, which was strange because of the cliché thing, the terrible first impression thing. Maybe she was wondering because of reasons such as his oak-banister forearms, great big hands and long fingers splayed none-too-gently across her midsection. (Warm too, to match his deep baritone and surprised laugher). He did actually sound surprised. He smelled good. She'd wanted to press her nose into his skin and just let it saturate her – yes, those were very good reasons indeed. She had to remind herself exactly why not and leave… maybe. He was much taller than she'd remembered – a whole head probably, and that's with her in heels. If she were to lean in, her head would fit neatly under his chin.
As if suddenly remembering himself, his oak-banister arm loosened from beneath her ribs. She blinked. With as steady a voice as she could muster – "Maker's Mark. Rocks."
"You could do with the ice."
Yes, mostly definitely the same guy. She told herself she'd heard these all before, that she knew this script: the grand finale, the coda, the epilogue. She downed the contents of her glass. So why not start from the end, then? Her fingers stroke his wrist; then she was leading him away. "Let's get out of here."
He throws a fifty on the bar top as he takes her hand.
Her hair shifts when she moves her head. The pad of his finger traces the edges of her spine down the exposed skin of her back.
She tells him to leave the lights off.
She drives him high, fast. She is desperate to feel today, and he fits the bill very nicely, his hard body surrounding her, embracing her. She devours him, her heart blooming at his strangled gasp. Not so eloquent today, are you, Mr. Brown Eyes. She is as tense as a whip when he moves over her, his mouth searching, his hands pinning her wrists above her head.
He knows his craft, she'll give him that. He watches her intently as he works her, and he works her hard. He is strong, steady, and curiously tender, and perhaps it is this last bit that makes her come apart. The first time, anyway.
He is far from done, folding her body over her knees, pressing an arch to her spine as he sets a punishing pace. After she comes the second time, he gathers her to him, his arm tight between her heavy breasts holding her tight against him as he coaxes her for a third. Their bodies are slick with sweat; still he is intent on her, parting her with his deft fingers, his generous cock.
He makes her feel it all.
Much later, she lies beside him, her body sated. His face is relaxed in sleep, and she blushes to remember his mouth, his tongue, his teeth. The street light is a pale gleam off his skin, and for a moment, she is tempted to touch him again. But no. In this story, she has to leave first, of course. It was the only recourse. For all the thousands of variations on the theme, there is to be only one coda.
If she had been at all a romanticist, he would suddenly open his eyes and ask her to stay. Or maybe he would roll over and subconsciously trap her to him with those strong arms. Or maybe she'll accidentally leave behind some identifying trinket with which he would studiously track her down.
She smiles.
She dresses quietly and fixes her face, and slips out. This is a coda she performs well.
Mako/Neph: a meandering little drabble for some wayward thoughts.