Tuesday night

[keira_nightly]

[That night.]Keira's belly hurts from laughing, her throat hoarse and her mouth set in a permanent grin when she clambers out of Paul's car onto the drive of her building. Nic is usually fairly adept at convincing him to drive them to and from places if neither of them feel like being particularly responsible, and that's most of the time

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[billboyd]

"Aye," he says, smiling and letting his fingertips slide across the rough weave of the denim, absorbing the heat of her skin through them. He tips his head back and offers up his handful of droopy daisies, which bobble their heads at Keira in what he likes to think is a friendly fashion. "Look," he says. "Romantic stuff."

[keira_nightly]

She laughs at that, because she's been laughing all night and this is just the best thing he could've done tonight, being here with stupid flowers and a smile for her. She takes them and crouches in front of him, in the space between his legs. She doesn't do anything for a moment, just rests both elbows on her knees with her chin up and looks down her nose at him, half smirking.

"I appreciate the gesture, Mr. Boyd," she says, and it's part facetious, part grateful, and she thinks it comes out just so under the chuckle and the daiquiris and the drooping weight of the daisies held loosely in her hand between their legs.

[billboyd]

"Do you now?" he says, arching both brows upward doubtfully. "Just how much do you appreciate it, Keira-mine? Let's say, on a scale from one to ten, where one is 'somewhat' and ten is 'over the fuckin' moon'?"

She grins and him and makes a show of considering it, and he slides his hands up under her tank top and rests them at the gentle dips of her waist on either side. "Hmmm," she says, and scrunches her forehead up, and Bill twiddles his fingers lightly, not quite tickling. He happens to know that she is very ticklish.

"I brought cake," he points out, and nods toward the box on the floor beside him. "In case that should have an impact on the judges final score."

[keira_nightly]

Her body has gone from loose-limbed to very alert at the touch of his fingers there (one day she'll tell him how many supposedly steamy takes assholes have fucked up over this particularity), but he seems to know just how to stay on this side of hysterics, and she squirms pleasantly in his grip, eyeing the box with interest.

"If it's cheesecake I'll blow you on the spot," she announces earnestly. "I don't care if the neighbours complain again."

[billboyd]

"Mmm," he says. "Something Nic and I agree on

[keira_nightly]

Once she gets a better hold on the holler that wants to roar out, she unclenches her jaw and squirms against the lukewarm wood of the armoire, riding the hard thrust of Bill's hand. She can't help the full-body shudder each time there's an edge of teeth in the hard sucks of Bill's mouth.

"Fuck. Bill, yeah, that's good, that's very good, yeah, yes..."

Her mouth is slack now but her words are soft and mumbled by habit, because she knows she sounds silly dirty-talking for Johnny, no matter what Johnny says, or Nic, or Orlando that one time. It never comes naturally on the prop bed, but she's started to get used to it with Bill, and the words sound less awkward and forced when he's the one begging for them.

[billboyd]

He loves the fucking sound of her voice when she's muttering approving words he doesn't think she is entirely in control of, loves the way it rises and falls with her breathing, so that 'yes' becomes siblant and prolonged and his name slides from between her lips as a husky purr.

His cock is fucking aching in his dress trousers and his hips are doing that thing they do with her that they've never actually done with anyone else, some sort of gently insistent rocking motion that has nothing to do with anything other than the fact that he can't quite keep them still when she whimpers like this, unselfconsciously needy (he hasn't quite got the hang of unselfconscious yet, but he's getting better); the motion doesn't really provide any friction, only a shifting of the constriction his trousers are inflicting on him, but it's still pretty fucking good, something sultry and harsh about the denial of pressure and pleasure while he listens to her coming apart

[keira_nightly]

She'd only dimly aware of what Bill asks, and what he does when she finds herself empty again, shaking and burning with the last clenches of orgasm. She makes her eyes crack open (they take a moment to focus); through heavy lashes she sees him lick her off his own fingers, eyes closed, cheeks flushed and hair mussed.

There's a tight clench in her belly at the sight, something that's not quite as white-hot as the lust boiling over in her limbs and chest, but something bright (yellow, she feels, buttery and warm) that makes her hold her breath for a second as she reaches for him again. Her fingers curve gently at the back of his neck and he lets her sink down to him, pulling him closer.

[billboyd]

Oh, he thinks, because nothing else will come, nothing else is possible, and her mouth is so bloody hot, her fingers inside him (oh, inside him, God, oh,) moving and doing something he'd be curious about if he had control of his mind (or anything else right now). But he doesn't have control, not even a little bit, maybe for the first time since he'd been a lad, and furthermore, he finds he doesn't mind.

The mindless twisting pleasure of it makes it okay, that it's Keira means that he doesn't need control, because she'll take care of him when he's like this, and the weirdness of the thought (if it can be called a thought at all, it's more like a hectic, blurring confusion of bright, breathlessly fast impressions that light up his brain like lightning flashes, giving unsteady but fearfully intense glimpses and revelations) is enough to make him actually make a sound that he can't pretend isn't a cry, and cannot blame on the pleasure of her mouth or her fingers, at least not entirely

[billboyd]

"Bill?" she says, low and careful, and slowly pulls her hand back, freeing her fingers from his arse, and he winces a little. It's more at the thought of it, the idea of being in a situation in which he would actually think something like that, than from any pain. There is a low, simmering lust in her voice. Melted caramel he thinks. Or hot fudge. The topping for your ice cream.If, of course, by ice cream you meant utterly surreal and impossibly intense orgasm

[keira_nightly]

She bites back a laugh, because he should know by now what she wants, but the rumble of good humour stays in her belly and mingles with the white-hot burn of needing to come, because she knows that's not what he means, or maybe it is but she's beginning to think he knows the answer.

He's flushed and damp and the tight muscles of his thighs jerk under her hand when she climbs over him, walks on all fours until she only just has to drop her head to kiss him. She doesn't though, not yet, settles with her knees on each side of him, the inside of her thighs pressed against the outside of his, both their skin slick and overheated. He's cooling off by miniscule increments but her own fever is just escalading, and her cunt clenches in near painful surprise when he finally moves his hand to her thigh.

"You," she manage out. "Touch me, bring me off. I need to come, Bill." The last words are licked into his ear, panted against his neck, one hand fisting his hair loosely, the other back between her legs or she'll just scream.

[billboyd]

His hand slides up her thigh at once; he isn't interested in denying her just to prove that he could if he wanted to (and there's the uneasy understanding that maybe he couldn't, just maybe really couldn't) or teasing her just to watch her squirm, though another time that may well be an interesting experiment