( if gideon doesn't understand what she's doing then that....makes two of them. pushing her boundaries --in any sense of the word-- is nothing new for quinn. is practically a requirement when living an entire life always within arm's reach of the same person. one who's always so relaxed in any given situation that it honestly sometimes makes her sick. nothing ever seems to piss him off, or get under his skin, where she is the exact opposite. the smallest, most insignificant things --a single bad review or an offhand comment thrown her will-- will eat at her for days.
so she tries to push him. because she's angry, because she's hurt, because she's bored. the reasons never matter very much, for quinn, it's always about the reaction. whether he loses control and yells --rarely. and almost always dependent on how much he's had to drink-- or just plain loses control, she still wins.
and the moment his touch begins to shift, words huffed under his breath, she knows she has him. ) He has really good hands. ( she murmurs in response, laying her own over top of his to stop it's slow upward movement. ) Nice, long fingers.
( threading theirs together as in in demonstration of the fact, her head falls onto his shoulder. sweetly, completely innocent if it weren't for the way she shifts again, hips pressing back and down. determinedly ignoring the fact that surely at least one person has noticed what's happening by now. too caught up in those little details again, like the way his breath catches faintly, or the warmth of his palm against her stomach. the light flush that stains her cheeks is the only indication that this isn't an every day sort of occurrence. ) He kept slipping them under my skirt. If you hadn't shown up to distract me, I might have asked him to show me if he knows how to use them.
( slowly, achingly so, she guides his hand. down her stomach and to the top of her skirt, where it would be so easy for his fingers to dip underneath the waistband. where she knows that's exactly what he wants to do. ) But you, you don't get jealous, right?
( yeah, it's truly a wonder why none of her attempted relationships has ever lasted longer than a couple weeks. )
no subject
so she tries to push him. because she's angry, because she's hurt, because she's bored. the reasons never matter very much, for quinn, it's always about the reaction. whether he loses control and yells --rarely. and almost always dependent on how much he's had to drink-- or just plain loses control, she still wins.
and the moment his touch begins to shift, words huffed under his breath, she knows she has him. ) He has really good hands. ( she murmurs in response, laying her own over top of his to stop it's slow upward movement. ) Nice, long fingers.
( threading theirs together as in in demonstration of the fact, her head falls onto his shoulder. sweetly, completely innocent if it weren't for the way she shifts again, hips pressing back and down. determinedly ignoring the fact that surely at least one person has noticed what's happening by now. too caught up in those little details again, like the way his breath catches faintly, or the warmth of his palm against her stomach. the light flush that stains her cheeks is the only indication that this isn't an every day sort of occurrence. ) He kept slipping them under my skirt. If you hadn't shown up to distract me, I might have asked him to show me if he knows how to use them.
( slowly, achingly so, she guides his hand. down her stomach and to the top of her skirt, where it would be so easy for his fingers to dip underneath the waistband. where she knows that's exactly what he wants to do. ) But you, you don't get jealous, right?
( yeah, it's truly a wonder why none of her attempted relationships has ever lasted longer than a couple weeks. )