Fred understands numbers. She understands their relationship to one another, the way they work. How two numbers can create something radically imperfect and then be broken, divided; only to be paired off with a completely different, and almost too similar, number to become whole and absolute like they've always wanted. And all it can take is one sexy equation.
It's like that now, Fred thinks, with Willow's head between her thighs. Although it's hard to really contemplate the numerical value of Willow's fingers splayed on Fred's bare belly, Fred's skirt hiked up around her breasts, and shocks of what Fred worries might be actual magickal electricity radiating to her kneecaps.
Six and a half weeks ago, Willow had shown up for the third time, but with five bags and a second girlfriend gone. Six and a half weeks translated to 17 days of muted flirtation, 408.344 hours huddled closely over demon anthologies and roughly 2300 moments out of 24500.64 seconds including shared sheepish smiles when fingers brushed on a seeming accident.
Willow does something fast and firm with her tongue, following it with a round nip of her lips and a soft vibrational hum. Fred shifts, squirms, hollers half a cuss, losing the end of it in her bitten lip.
Fred's too smart to not have seen this coming since the first cup of coffee and calm stroke of Willow's hair; and she's too lonely to not have thought about it late at night while easing the sting between her legs beneath the cold sheets of her big bed . Or she had been, lonely that is; it being 120,604 seconds since Charles last touched her like this.
Dragging her tongue in a torturous retreat, Willow abandons the flushed pink junction of Fred's thighs. Fred squeaks like a mouse, mouth closed, a squealing gasp in her throat as Willow giggles and licks up to the tiny plunge of her navel. Fred's hands fly to Willow's scalp, tightening around a fistful of auburn, probably too hard because Willow slightly digs her nails in where they rest on Fred's hips.
This time Fred fails to bite off the sharp end of a cussword when Willow returns down beneath and between, tongue sliding, thumb circling, Fred arching and clawing. Cordelia said she'd be gone ten minutes, and it's been almost half that. So Fred isn't given much time to recover after she comes, the sizzle in her kneecaps multiplying in her limbs and fingertips. Just a moment of Willow's mouth on hers, a combination of tongues and saliva and salt, before Fred's leaning over Willow, kissing down her neck as Willow moans and giggles some more.
Fred's really starting to get this. T-minus three hundred and counting...
The End
|
Main What's New Fiction by Author Fiction by Pairing eBooks Subject Index Submissions Gallery Forums Links Awards Contact Us |
|
The Mystic Muse. © 2002-2009 All rights reserved. If you find problems on these pages please email your host. |