The suddenness makes him tense, a little, but only for half a second until he realizes what she's angling for, and then he's utterly obliging, trusting she'll keep him from backing up into the water. No objections here, ma'am. He lets himself fall against the bark, itching to get his hands on her but holding back to give her room to work without tangling their limbs togetherness yet. His heart is racing in the best way, and suffice it to say if she changes her mind again... Well, then he'd be very disappointed.
He shifts his hips beneath her hands without meaning to, eager and practically panting against her mouth. If she's decided, he's certainly not going to argue the point.
The only way she's stopping is if someone happens by, and by this point they'd have to decide to purposefully interrupt. (If that happened, she'd hit the ground laughing and never recover.) She grins into their kiss as his interest makes itself apparent, her fingers prying open buttons and zipper, pushing cloth aside.
There are connotations to this she can't entirely ignore, memories she'd just as soon not dredge up. Ignoring them is easier than she'd have guessed, so with that noise reduced to a dull murmur in the corner of her mind, Carol is free to do as she likes. Being in control of her own choices makes all the difference and there's no question that this is what she wants.
One last moment of attention to that kiss before she pulls back smiling, tempted to say something cheeky. But instead she drops to a knee, hands at his hips, and makes herself clear wordlessly.
Somehow it honestly still manages to take him by surprise, how brazen she can be. When he's thought about this-- and yes, he has; for all that things have been a little hot and cold since she got back, they've been hot enough to tend toward warm all around, it's never seemed outside the realm of probability that sooner or later they'd find the time for more than kissing, though he rather expected they'd be indoors when they did-- he's had it in mind that she might not want to do this, that she might have too many unpleasant memories, and he'd half thought he'd valiantly not let her because she doesn't have to. But of course she doesn't have to; if there were any intimation that she had to then she wouldn't.
So he lets her break the kiss and fall before him. That guileless, fond look in her eyes is enough to kill any protests that might be on the tip of his tongue. It's like everything else has been; entirely different in the heat of the moment than in the endless rationalizations, and when it comes down to it he doesn't have it in him to deny her anything. So he doesn't, and it's fortunate he's got something to lean on or he'd dissolve, trying to keep his hips stilled and running his hands lightly through her hair.
Maybe he ought to visit her at work more often, eh.
He needn't worry about her demons, she's got them controlled for now. They may pop up once and again but they're not so powerful as a promise she made to herself long ago, to never hold back on what she wanted to do. For too long her word was as good as dirt but since the prison she's found her balance, and in spite of how things ended she won't go back on it. (The one thing that might throw her is a tight fist in her hair holding her down, but only maybe, and so far he's gentle as ever. Briefly she wonders if that means she's not being distracting enough, contradictory though that is, but it has her more motivated which he should like.)
Years and miles and lifetimes since she's had a use for this particular... skill? Task? There's no delicate way to put it, but the point is her lack of recent history isn't such a problem. All that's really needed is enthusiasm and confidence, both of which are well covered. And being brazen, as he put it, doesn't hurt either; she's just fine with exploring and testing and trying just about anything if it'll drag a good reaction out of him. If she gets a queue from above, she doesn't hesitate.
Her only regret is she can't see his face, but there's time. He seems to be enjoying himself so she likes her chances for a second go-round.
Give him time to get used to the idea and he'll get less tentative about it; right now it's overwhelming enough to let her use her judgment, the last thing he wants is to spoil the moment holding too tight. She's more than distracting enough. If he's too quiet, chalk it up to shock and the fact that they are kind of doing this where anyone could walk up and see. (To her credit, he might not notice.)
Once he catches his breath after he'll reach down to offer her a hand up. Round two won't take much persuasion, though they'll have to finish the bottom half of this inning, first. (Yes, baseball again.) Daryl doesn't like to owe anyone anything; and though that's not what this is about, though it's not a transaction, he's all too eager to make it up to her.
But maybe... not here.
"Can you wait til we get home?" he asks, his voice low and rough and full of promise, and there's a good chance he will never, ever scrape himself up to tell her he loves her but maybe if he talks like this enough she'll hear it, anyway. She ought to.
She uses the moment he takes to find his breath to sip some water and rinse her mouth, sorry if that messes with any Playboy-oriented fantasies he has. By the time she takes his offered hand she's all smiles, and hopefully he'll pardon the air of self-satisfaction. That was fun. (And she's not worried, eventually she'll get a louder response out of him since she's quite willing to put in the time.)
"If we hurry," she says while resting a moment in the crook of his neck. Honestly, that voice. It's enough to make her melt if that wouldn't be wholly unconducive to hearing more of it.
If she's candid with herself, Carol might be the smallest bit nervous about breaking the ice in an actual bedroom. Not enough to make her hesitate, thankfully. As soon as he's ready to go, she'll make quick work of gathering her things. The catfish can wait in its cooler until she's damn good and ready to do something with it.
He'd never have asked her to start with, he's not gonna fault her. Besides, he does need that moment to catch his breath. Which is good, because that hurry is gonna light a fire under him to get that home. Maybe catfish victory dinner is on the menu after all.
Once she pulls away he sets about making himself decent and shouldering his bow, grabbing his own things before turning to see if she needs him to carry anything. He'd race her home if it wouldn't tire them out.
No racing necessary, she doesn't mind the wait. Along the way she nearly says about fifty different things ranging from smug jokes to curious inquiries as to what he's thinking about doing, exactly, once the wait is over, but in the end she is content to just walk together with the very agreeable mental replay of what just happened.
It seems strange to think it, but Carol is proud of herself -- not for the specifics or anything so tawdry, but for fighting through the nerves and hold-ups. For not letting herself keep Daryl at arm's length over things that have nothing to do with the here and now.
Maybe once they get home she'll be brave enough to do it again.
Edited (redundancy I hate you) 2014-11-18 04:22 (UTC)
If Daryl has his way she'll have plenty of time to work up the nerve.
Letting the walk pass in more or less silence suits him just fine; maybe he's a little more apt to touch her than usual, like he's got energy to burn, like he can't quite keep his hands to himself. It's not just about the act, it's the new dimension this adds to their relationship. (That word still kind of itches like it's ill-fitting, too small for all the things that tie them together, but at this point dancing around it, he figures, is ridiculous.) The eagerness now, hopefully, makes up for any apparent reservation he had earlier.
When they get home he'd very much like to head straight up the stairs and waste no time in getting her pants off, but there are possibly responsibilities to attend first.
"Whatcha think, we need to put that thing in the fridge?"
One more mild cockblock from beyond the fishy grave.
To say she doesn't mind his restless touching would be understating it; each brush of his hands is a tangible reminder of why she can't let herself languish in isolation. Nothing in her life is perfect or quite comfortable but this, his casual touch and the pleasantly heady bubble they're in, comes close enough to make up for some of the rest.
Carol hums her affirmation and goes to take their mischievous fishy friend into the kitchen. usually she guts and fillets them before storage but she's in a bit of a rush, so she wraps the guy in paper towels and foil so he won't alarm anyone with his bug-eyed stare.
Then she washes her hands again, uses some sweet-smelling lotion because it suits her mood, and joins Daryl near the foot of the stairs. Judging by the look she's wearing, dealing with the fish was hardly enough to spoil the mood. He can blame that husky voice of his.
(Don't be so quick to say one more, she's got her tall black boots on. Though they have zippers this time let's say.)
Back home the fish wouldn't last, so once again Daryl finds himself eminently grateful for the modern miracle of refrigeration. When she comes back he risks leaning in for a quick kiss; it's hardly the most private thing they've done or the most public place they've done it, he might not even mind except that if anyone sees they're likely to want to talk and he's got other things on his mind right now.
Like taking her hand and giving it an eager tug. Up the stairs, into a room-- hers is closer and this time he's not the least bit worried about providing an exit strategy-- where he can pull her to him and kiss her in earnest.
Even after their dalliance in the woods that little kiss shocks her for a blink, until she remembers that day in the foyer, not three feet from the front door. She'll have to do something about this presumption she has that anyone asking Daryl about their evolving relationship (it is a poorly tailored word, she agrees, though she can't think of a better one) would be met with stuttering, irritable denial. Not that she's sure either of them is in a rush to have that discussion. (Or, he's still a little fuzzy from earlier, which is equally as gratifying a thought.)
Carol permits him to half-tug her up the stairs, much appreciating his slapdash enthusiasm as she's feeling not unlike a kid, herself, all zeal and impetuousness. Once they're tucked away in her room Carol kicks the door, barely focusing long enough to note the telling click as she's swept into Daryl's arms with a sound of joyful surprise (she's not surprised at all, but likes the way it sounds just then). She couldn't begin to deny that she's still wound up from their time lakeside, though what's more curious is that he is. If she were to think on it -- and she has much more pressing matters to attend to at this exact moment -- it wouldn't be so remarkable for Daryl to be more invested in pleasing her than he is himself, but the contrast between this and other men she's known is extreme enough to draw her attention in a way that's probably more flattering than it should be (he'd do the same for anyone... figuratively speaking).
Melting against him, Carol is able to do little more than respond for now, a bit weak-kneed thanks to how he's behaving. She'll find her mettle again in short enough order; he likes her that way and so does she. For this short moment, she's fine being putty in his hands. Hopefully he'll make good use of the reprieve.
There’s a marked difference between not wanting to talk about it (he doesn’t) and wanting to deny it (he also doesn’t). He’d leave her space to wriggle out of any definition of what they are, because by his own standards he’s not much of a catch, but he wouldn’t deny her. There’s not even an ounce of kneejerk embarrassment there; though maybe he’d sing a different tune if someone had walked into their moment among the trees, which has nothing to do with being with her and everything to do with the position they were in. Right now, it’s everything to do with total impatience.
If they were just beginning, here, he’d be more reserved; he wouldn’t take it on faith that he’s got license to move as far and as fast as he’d like to, he’d ease into it. As it is, consumed with the memory of her mouth on him he’s only holding back enough to keep from falling all over himself, eager and greedy, shamelessly grabbing her ass to hold them close and trying to steer her toward the edge of the bed. If she hesitates, if she tenses, he’ll stop dead; if she lets him, though, he’ll ease her down as best he can without breaking their kiss more than strictly necessary.
Honestly, Carol has given exactly zero thought to how she'd react to someone asking her about Daryl. She's far enough on the outside looking in, thus far, that she figures Daryl's the one more likely to get questions, possibly even of the what are you thinking? variety. Because truly, with the way he's all over her right now, she finds it impossible beyond her wildest dreams that anyone wouldn't want to trade places with her. Even platonically speaking, Daryl is arguably the most valuable member of their group, the most reliable and consistent and universally protective. This is a man who almost killed himself looking for a lost little girl he had no responsibility to save. If she ever heard him imply he's not a catch she'd threaten... something non-violent, yet incredibly effective at making her point. She'll think on specifics if it happens.
Finding her mental footing, Carol is happy enough to give up her actual footing and let Daryl push her into bed. She refuses to let this encounter be another thing she looks back on with regret and perhaps the only thing that could cause that is her being a cold fish (a phrase which, by the way, has taken on a whole new meaning between today's catfish interruption and references to card games). He won't need to worry about hesitation, now that she's catching up with herself Carol's as daring as he is, her hands pulling at his shirt buttons if there's a way to squeeze it between them, returning his kiss with with abandon despite already having her breath stolen away.
Only in hindsight will she wonder if perhaps she should have been bothered by the breakneck speed, and only in a purely theoretical sense. In the moment neither her body nor her mind are saying anything but yes, yes, yes. Chances are good her voice will get in on that, eventually.
Anyone who'd try to argue he's made a poor choice wouldn't deserve an answer anyway. Daryl doesn't think of himself as a romantic, but he has his moments; and more than that he's been fiercely protective of her since long before this seemed like a distant possibility. That hasn't changed. Maybe that's at the heart of why this is so new, so different from anything he's had before; all this is in addition to a deep friendship, not in lieu of it. (That's not to say he's never had close relationships, just not this close. There's a lot to be said for starting from something deeper than infatuation.)
Her response does nothing to dissuade him from his task. Maybe a little to stall him, keeping him kissing her a little longer. He lets her clutching his shirt guide him, stooping to kneel on the floor before her. It's a little too much of a stretch to keep his lips on hers, though, when he leans down to tend to her boots, since getting her pants off over them would be dreadfully difficult.
It's funny given Daryl's own view of himself that Carol does see him as a romantic. Not in that cornball, red roses and champagne kind of way, which really is less romantic in her book than condescending anyway, but in the sense that he believes in good things even when life gives him absolutely no reason to. That he struggled so much with losing Sophia, lashing out the way he did, only proved it all the more, and gave Carol more reasons to never give up on him, ever. Carol often used to wonder, sometimes still does, who she'd be if she hadn't gone down the path that led her to marry Ed, and maybe Daryl wondered the same about his own past. But whatever else can be said for their shitty histories, in a way it's part of their bond, part of what makes them work well enough for what they're trying at now; neither of them knows quite what they're doing, but they do know each other and that makes it okay if the road is littered with potholes and hairpin turns.
Carol catches her breath, leaning back on her hands as Daryl messes with her boot zippers. Leaning forward to help him sounds like ways to get a concussion in one easy lesson and that would derail things messily -- not acceptable. As for what, exactly he's up to... she never expected a precise quid pro quo, if that's where his mind is. She wonders idly if it would be more demure to voice some halfhearted objection if so, but, bluntly, screw that. She's careful and her nerves are kicking up in that anxious, excited way, but she's no virtuous young maiden and it's been forever. Frankly, if he asked right now she'd do pretty much any dirty thing he wanted.
She makes herself useful in what little ways she can, kicking up her feet so he can tug her boots free, lifting her hips if he goes for her pants. Making sure there's a pillow within reach in case she gets loud, because being shameless seems to be working for her and she's not stopping now.
There's no doubt that their shitty histories were a great part of what drew them together; so call that a silver lining, if you will. Maybe that's romantic or optimistic or something good; he thinks it doesn't matter. The only what ifs that matter are the ones ahead, cautious experiments rather than wistful fantasies. This moment, this whatever they are, it might not make up for all the dark times but maybe it makes it worth going on in spite of them. It makes him comfortable enough with her to let his guard down.
Once the boots are gone he spares a moment to glance up at her, wearing a trace of a smile, offering a chance to voice a protest if she wants, glad when she doesn't. One good turn deserves another and he's anything but shy, all willingness and wanting, eager to please. If she asked, he'd stop. It's about the only thing that would stop him, though.
The way she moves with him, shifting her hips so he can drag her clothes down over them, is patent encouragement; and he leans in to kiss her thighs as he bares them (though really, he's more blindly mouthing at her skin, too eager to be demure himself). It's a slow progression, not from hesitance but because it's the right pace for the moment, as he works his way down to the bend of her knee, leaving her pants in an unceremonious heap on the floor between them. There he pauses to meet her eyes again and wet his lips before he leans back in to meander his way back up her leg.
It's the mutual comfort which is most remarkable, that she doesn't shy away or even look away from him despite having an overflow of traumatic mess to weed through. Whether this is so far removed from her prior experiences because of her implicit trust in Daryl or because he's given her every inch she needs or because things happened that flicker-quick, Carol can't say. She doesn't especially care. Whyever this works, it's a fitting culmination, like closing a circuit. Sparks and all.
The only protest that comes to mind is that he's teasing, though she's hardly one to throw that particular stone, and really the poignant glances are every bit as effective at spiking her temperature as the rest. She does, however, give a twittering giggle as his mouth first touches her leg.
"Your beard tickles." She weaves a hand through his hair in case he should get any mistaken impressions about stopping, and slides down to prop herself on an elbow. Before long she's slid to lay flat, and doing anything but laughing, so much that she drags her pillow close enough to turn her face against when the inevitable need arises.
She's not shy about offering simple directions, shifting her hips or gasping out a word until he strikes just so and then there, right there is the last of it, and she's muffled against the pillow with her hand twisted in the bedsheets. The shift from almost to beyond is shockingly fast, yanking her off the mattress almost to sitting (and blessedly silent, she left the pillow behind).
Back onto the mattress with a lazy flop, head lolling, she draws a deep breath and looks over at him, quirking her finger.
"C'mere." She needs a moment for certain but not a chance is she through with him. If he could shed a few articles of clothing on the way it'd help her a lot.
Maybe he's teasing, but only a bit, only in the finest way possible. Even her giggle doesn't shake him; he responds with a low, purposeful hum right against her, and he keeps about his business. Lucky her, he always takes direction well, all the more so when he's so invested in his task. In all things he's a believer that anything worth doing is worth doing right; and so, he's relentlessly thorough, focused on each reaction he draws, every directive she gasps, rewarded by the roll of her hips, her muffled cries.
He straightens and stretches as she lets herself sink back against the bed, taking a moment to feel a bit smug, heart still racing in time with hers before she beckons him. The clothing will need a little more hinting but she'll find him utterly obliging; it's not as though they have any reason to be bashful. It takes him a moment to haul himself up beside her; his knees are a little stiff from being folded, but he's got no complaints.
This is mainly because, stretched languorous and smiling beside him, Carol doesn't seem to have any, either.
Bashfulness has indeed outlived its usefulness between them, and good riddance. Carol rolls to face Daryl, the motion requiring a not insubstantial effort, tempting as it is to rest there and savor the pooling warmth that's threatening to make her drowsy.
"No one likes a boaster," she quips, inching forward to kiss his neck and deciding to stay put for the moment. She wouldn't truly mind if he was, Lord knows he earned it. She has no decent scale for how good sex is supposed to go, and her feelings for him would let her greatly enjoy even something not that far upstream of average, but she thinks they're doing fine. It's hard to be objective in her judgment while she's indolent with afterglow.
Content as she'd be to bask for a time, Carol finds her hands want to be everywhere so she doesn't fight the impulse. No hurry though, a lazy stroke here and a freed button there. Finding skin beneath the hem of his shirt while her lips work north of the collar.
She seems to like a boaster plenty, he thinks, so he answers that with a low, skeptical hum, a laugh threatening somewhere deep in it, reaching for her as she moves toward him. He's not boasting, he's just savoring her satisfaction. The prospect of this had worried him a little, guessing as he does at what her marriage likely held; he hadn't been sure she'd be able to relax for him until she did, and that's gratifying on a multitude of levels. There's the simple satisfaction of a job well done, of course, but it reflects something much deeper than just the act, and that's really what has him so pleased.
If she just wanted to rest on his laurels a while that would be fine, too, but he's quite pleased to find her hands on him instead. There's a little tangle of limbs as he tries to sort out the best place for his arms, settling for absently uncatching a few buttons in the middle of his shirt for her before giving up and sliding his palms under the hanging hem of hers as well. She'll find if she tries it that he's already undone his fly. Multitude of levels, remember?
She hadn't been entirely sure she could relax, either, and she's still can't promise not to seize up. And yet she is relaxed, for the moment and hopefully beyond, uncertainty and all. Even the slowed pace doesn't give her pause as she thought it might, though her thoughts, sluggish from a moment ago, could be contributing. The exact reason is indecipherable and irrelevant besides; she's more than fine, and they're most certainly not done.
If Daryl shows any hint of that desperate impatience again, Carol's very much prepared to match his speed, jump in his lap and race to the finish, she's not so cruel as to tease him after what he just did. But this matches her mood, easy and exploring, savoring the slow build. She slides free the buttons he didn't get to, making an amused sound when she finds his zipper down almost like an invitation -- one she gladly accepts. Her kisses become more adamant on his neck; careful, though, not to leave any telltale marks, neither of them need that aggravation.
Right now whatever pace she'd like to set suits him just fine; he'd been overeager to even the score, but certainly he's in no rush to be finished with this. He's absently aware that there's still some cause for caution, but as long as she's taking the initiative he's happy to follow her lead. (And under the circumstances how could he not be?)
Here, safely surrounded by walls and with a mattress at his back rather than a tree trunk, he's noticeably more relaxed, more willing to respond with a soft sound or a sharp gasp here and there, hips bucking into her hand when it slips lower.
He tips his head back blissfully, running his hands up under her shirt with a little hum of joy.
While Carol can't deny appreciating the offerings of his overeager side, this also has its benefits. Like those quiet sounds he's making, the almost euphoric look on his face. It's almost enough to make her want to stay closed up in this room forever, just to watch him wear that expression. It's not the same as joy, but it's as close as she's seen him, and it's amazing.
Since they're in no hurry she explores a bit more, varying the movements and pressure and tension of her hand. Watching his face for any telling signs has her enrapt for a few moments before she leans down for another kiss, soft and slow but full of promise.
Honestly, Daryl does have his little moments of joy; they're small and quiet and they don't always show. You'll catch more of his smiles watching his eyes than his mouth. This... is something different, though not entirely so. It isn't just the physical act, it's the closeness that has gotten them to this point, the triumph that they're alive and whole enough, in spite of everything, to care. They have every reason to be joyous, they would even if she wasn't tracing her fingertips along him, purposeful and deft. He's given up trying to stay still because he can't, because she seems to enjoy his reactions so much. Christ, can he get his mouth back on her without having to move?
He frees a hand from under her shirt to run it through her hair, setting his palm between her shoulder blades when she kisses him, holding her close, pressing himself against her wherever he can. It's not the frantic desperation that guided him earlier, but this time she certainly can't have any grounds to doubt whether she's distracting him enough.
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what_wings_dare2014-02-14 08:31 pm
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He shifts his hips beneath her hands without meaning to, eager and practically panting against her mouth. If she's decided, he's certainly not going to argue the point.
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There are connotations to this she can't entirely ignore, memories she'd just as soon not dredge up. Ignoring them is easier than she'd have guessed, so with that noise reduced to a dull murmur in the corner of her mind, Carol is free to do as she likes. Being in control of her own choices makes all the difference and there's no question that this is what she wants.
One last moment of attention to that kiss before she pulls back smiling, tempted to say something cheeky. But instead she drops to a knee, hands at his hips, and makes herself clear wordlessly.
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So he lets her break the kiss and fall before him. That guileless, fond look in her eyes is enough to kill any protests that might be on the tip of his tongue. It's like everything else has been; entirely different in the heat of the moment than in the endless rationalizations, and when it comes down to it he doesn't have it in him to deny her anything. So he doesn't, and it's fortunate he's got something to lean on or he'd dissolve, trying to keep his hips stilled and running his hands lightly through her hair.
Maybe he ought to visit her at work more often, eh.
do I ever not have icons for this.
Years and miles and lifetimes since she's had a use for this particular... skill? Task? There's no delicate way to put it, but the point is her lack of recent history isn't such a problem. All that's really needed is enthusiasm and confidence, both of which are well covered. And being brazen, as he put it, doesn't hurt either; she's just fine with exploring and testing and trying just about anything if it'll drag a good reaction out of him. If she gets a queue from above, she doesn't hesitate.
Her only regret is she can't see his face, but there's time. He seems to be enjoying himself so she likes her chances for a second go-round.
i know that feel |D
Once he catches his breath after he'll reach down to offer her a hand up. Round two won't take much persuasion, though they'll have to finish the bottom half of this inning, first. (Yes, baseball again.) Daryl doesn't like to owe anyone anything; and though that's not what this is about, though it's not a transaction, he's all too eager to make it up to her.
But maybe... not here.
"Can you wait til we get home?" he asks, his voice low and rough and full of promise, and there's a good chance he will never, ever scrape himself up to tell her he loves her but maybe if he talks like this enough she'll hear it, anyway. She ought to.
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"If we hurry," she says while resting a moment in the crook of his neck. Honestly, that voice. It's enough to make her melt if that wouldn't be wholly unconducive to hearing more of it.
If she's candid with herself, Carol might be the smallest bit nervous about breaking the ice in an actual bedroom. Not enough to make her hesitate, thankfully. As soon as he's ready to go, she'll make quick work of gathering her things. The catfish can wait in its cooler until she's damn good and ready to do something with it.
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Once she pulls away he sets about making himself decent and shouldering his bow, grabbing his own things before turning to see if she needs him to carry anything. He'd race her home if it wouldn't tire them out.
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It seems strange to think it, but Carol is proud of herself -- not for the specifics or anything so tawdry, but for fighting through the nerves and hold-ups. For not letting herself keep Daryl at arm's length over things that have nothing to do with the here and now.
Maybe once they get home she'll be brave enough to do it again.
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Letting the walk pass in more or less silence suits him just fine; maybe he's a little more apt to touch her than usual, like he's got energy to burn, like he can't quite keep his hands to himself. It's not just about the act, it's the new dimension this adds to their relationship. (That word still kind of itches like it's ill-fitting, too small for all the things that tie them together, but at this point dancing around it, he figures, is ridiculous.) The eagerness now, hopefully, makes up for any apparent reservation he had earlier.
When they get home he'd very much like to head straight up the stairs and waste no time in getting her pants off, but there are possibly responsibilities to attend first.
"Whatcha think, we need to put that thing in the fridge?"
One more mild cockblock from beyond the fishy grave.
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Carol hums her affirmation and goes to take their mischievous fishy friend into the kitchen. usually she guts and fillets them before storage but she's in a bit of a rush, so she wraps the guy in paper towels and foil so he won't alarm anyone with his bug-eyed stare.
Then she washes her hands again, uses some sweet-smelling lotion because it suits her mood, and joins Daryl near the foot of the stairs. Judging by the look she's wearing, dealing with the fish was hardly enough to spoil the mood. He can blame that husky voice of his.
(Don't be so quick to say one more, she's got her tall black boots on.
Though they have zippers this time let's say.)no subject
Like taking her hand and giving it an eager tug. Up the stairs, into a room-- hers is closer and this time he's not the least bit worried about providing an exit strategy-- where he can pull her to him and kiss her in earnest.
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Carol permits him to half-tug her up the stairs, much appreciating his slapdash enthusiasm as she's feeling not unlike a kid, herself, all zeal and impetuousness. Once they're tucked away in her room Carol kicks the door, barely focusing long enough to note the telling click as she's swept into Daryl's arms with a sound of joyful surprise (she's not surprised at all, but likes the way it sounds just then). She couldn't begin to deny that she's still wound up from their time lakeside, though what's more curious is that he is. If she were to think on it -- and she has much more pressing matters to attend to at this exact moment -- it wouldn't be so remarkable for Daryl to be more invested in pleasing her than he is himself, but the contrast between this and other men she's known is extreme enough to draw her attention in a way that's probably more flattering than it should be (he'd do the same for anyone... figuratively speaking).
Melting against him, Carol is able to do little more than respond for now, a bit weak-kneed thanks to how he's behaving. She'll find her mettle again in short enough order; he likes her that way and so does she. For this short moment, she's fine being putty in his hands. Hopefully he'll make good use of the reprieve.
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If they were just beginning, here, he’d be more reserved; he wouldn’t take it on faith that he’s got license to move as far and as fast as he’d like to, he’d ease into it. As it is, consumed with the memory of her mouth on him he’s only holding back enough to keep from falling all over himself, eager and greedy, shamelessly grabbing her ass to hold them close and trying to steer her toward the edge of the bed. If she hesitates, if she tenses, he’ll stop dead; if she lets him, though, he’ll ease her down as best he can without breaking their kiss more than strictly necessary.
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Finding her mental footing, Carol is happy enough to give up her actual footing and let Daryl push her into bed. She refuses to let this encounter be another thing she looks back on with regret and perhaps the only thing that could cause that is her being a cold fish (a phrase which, by the way, has taken on a whole new meaning between today's catfish interruption and references to card games). He won't need to worry about hesitation, now that she's catching up with herself Carol's as daring as he is, her hands pulling at his shirt buttons if there's a way to squeeze it between them, returning his kiss with with abandon despite already having her breath stolen away.
Only in hindsight will she wonder if perhaps she should have been bothered by the breakneck speed, and only in a purely theoretical sense. In the moment neither her body nor her mind are saying anything but yes, yes, yes. Chances are good her voice will get in on that, eventually.
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Her response does nothing to dissuade him from his task. Maybe a little to stall him, keeping him kissing her a little longer. He lets her clutching his shirt guide him, stooping to kneel on the floor before her. It's a little too much of a stretch to keep his lips on hers, though, when he leans down to tend to her boots, since getting her pants off over them would be dreadfully difficult.
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Carol catches her breath, leaning back on her hands as Daryl messes with her boot zippers. Leaning forward to help him sounds like ways to get a concussion in one easy lesson and that would derail things messily -- not acceptable. As for what, exactly he's up to... she never expected a precise quid pro quo, if that's where his mind is. She wonders idly if it would be more demure to voice some halfhearted objection if so, but, bluntly, screw that. She's careful and her nerves are kicking up in that anxious, excited way, but she's no virtuous young maiden and it's been forever. Frankly, if he asked right now she'd do pretty much any dirty thing he wanted.
She makes herself useful in what little ways she can, kicking up her feet so he can tug her boots free, lifting her hips if he goes for her pants. Making sure there's a pillow within reach in case she gets loud, because being shameless seems to be working for her and she's not stopping now.
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Once the boots are gone he spares a moment to glance up at her, wearing a trace of a smile, offering a chance to voice a protest if she wants, glad when she doesn't. One good turn deserves another and he's anything but shy, all willingness and wanting, eager to please. If she asked, he'd stop. It's about the only thing that would stop him, though.
The way she moves with him, shifting her hips so he can drag her clothes down over them, is patent encouragement; and he leans in to kiss her thighs as he bares them (though really, he's more blindly mouthing at her skin, too eager to be demure himself). It's a slow progression, not from hesitance but because it's the right pace for the moment, as he works his way down to the bend of her knee, leaving her pants in an unceremonious heap on the floor between them. There he pauses to meet her eyes again and wet his lips before he leans back in to meander his way back up her leg.
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The only protest that comes to mind is that he's teasing, though she's hardly one to throw that particular stone, and really the poignant glances are every bit as effective at spiking her temperature as the rest. She does, however, give a twittering giggle as his mouth first touches her leg.
"Your beard tickles." She weaves a hand through his hair in case he should get any mistaken impressions about stopping, and slides down to prop herself on an elbow. Before long she's slid to lay flat, and doing anything but laughing, so much that she drags her pillow close enough to turn her face against when the inevitable need arises.
She's not shy about offering simple directions, shifting her hips or gasping out a word until he strikes just so and then there, right there is the last of it, and she's muffled against the pillow with her hand twisted in the bedsheets. The shift from almost to beyond is shockingly fast, yanking her off the mattress almost to sitting (and blessedly silent, she left the pillow behind).
Back onto the mattress with a lazy flop, head lolling, she draws a deep breath and looks over at him, quirking her finger.
"C'mere." She needs a moment for certain but not a chance is she through with him. If he could shed a few articles of clothing on the way it'd help her a lot.
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He straightens and stretches as she lets herself sink back against the bed, taking a moment to feel a bit smug, heart still racing in time with hers before she beckons him. The clothing will need a little more hinting but she'll find him utterly obliging; it's not as though they have any reason to be bashful. It takes him a moment to haul himself up beside her; his knees are a little stiff from being folded, but he's got no complaints.
This is mainly because, stretched languorous and smiling beside him, Carol doesn't seem to have any, either.
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"No one likes a boaster," she quips, inching forward to kiss his neck and deciding to stay put for the moment. She wouldn't truly mind if he was, Lord knows he earned it. She has no decent scale for how good sex is supposed to go, and her feelings for him would let her greatly enjoy even something not that far upstream of average, but she thinks they're doing fine. It's hard to be objective in her judgment while she's indolent with afterglow.
Content as she'd be to bask for a time, Carol finds her hands want to be everywhere so she doesn't fight the impulse. No hurry though, a lazy stroke here and a freed button there. Finding skin beneath the hem of his shirt while her lips work north of the collar.
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If she just wanted to rest on his laurels a while that would be fine, too, but he's quite pleased to find her hands on him instead. There's a little tangle of limbs as he tries to sort out the best place for his arms, settling for absently uncatching a few buttons in the middle of his shirt for her before giving up and sliding his palms under the hanging hem of hers as well. She'll find if she tries it that he's already undone his fly. Multitude of levels, remember?
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If Daryl shows any hint of that desperate impatience again, Carol's very much prepared to match his speed, jump in his lap and race to the finish, she's not so cruel as to tease him after what he just did. But this matches her mood, easy and exploring, savoring the slow build. She slides free the buttons he didn't get to, making an amused sound when she finds his zipper down almost like an invitation -- one she gladly accepts. Her kisses become more adamant on his neck; careful, though, not to leave any telltale marks, neither of them need that aggravation.
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Here, safely surrounded by walls and with a mattress at his back rather than a tree trunk, he's noticeably more relaxed, more willing to respond with a soft sound or a sharp gasp here and there, hips bucking into her hand when it slips lower.
He tips his head back blissfully, running his hands up under her shirt with a little hum of joy.
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Since they're in no hurry she explores a bit more, varying the movements and pressure and tension of her hand. Watching his face for any telling signs has her enrapt for a few moments before she leans down for another kiss, soft and slow but full of promise.
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He frees a hand from under her shirt to run it through her hair, setting his palm between her shoulder blades when she kisses him, holding her close, pressing himself against her wherever he can. It's not the frantic desperation that guided him earlier, but this time she certainly can't have any grounds to doubt whether she's distracting him enough.
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