Loki X Reader || Girl With The Gold Earring

32 | The Low Wooden Table

(Skip to next chapter if you don't like mature sexy scenes)

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The joints in Y/N's fingers gummed up with exhilaration as she clumsily eased the first of Loki's shirt buttons from its loop, and then the second, then the third.

It's hard to concentrate with the rough scrape of the prince's teeth at her neck, the brushing sweetness of his hair tickling her face---but she managed, and let her eyes slide down the narrow column skin she'd exposed, pale and mysterious as the moon.

Y/N has seen shirtless men before; metalworkers glistening from the heat of their fires, burly and coal-blackened, farmers thick as oxen turning over fields, their backs peeled by the sun.

But Loki doesn't look like them.

Y/N slips the material from his body as though drawing back curtains on something she's forbidden from seeing. "The handsomest," she says, seriously this time, and feels him grin against her throat.

She doesn't know what she wants to touch first.

The firm hills of his pectorals.

The slight grid of muscles at his stomach.

His taught, sinewy upper arms.

She wants to touch all of him, have him against her, engulfing her, the sweet hard weight of him pressing her into some kind of horizontal surface.

Anything will do. A bed. The table. The floor.

That foreign desire flooded her all at once, and she swam in it for a second, wondering if Loki is feeling the same thing. He probably is. She can feel his heartbeat when she kisses his throat.

He's not touching her, but she'd like him to. Well, he is, but not with his hands, because they're dripping with paint. He's holding them behind his back---like he'd done when they'd met on the palace steps---but this time Y/N can see the tight muscles of his arms working to keep them there.

Perhaps it's a blessing they're there. She never would have managed to get his shirt open had they been allowed to roam.

Y/N touches a palm to his chest, her hands tingling with his cool, forbidden skin.

Loki's kisses stumble at the contact, his heart quick beneath her hand. The rest of him is still as he adjusts to the intimate touch. 

When he resumes, his lips part, the wetness of his tongue startlingly hot.

Y/N whimpers.

"That's my favourite sound," he growled, and Y/N giggled shakily.

Kissing Loki's neck feels different now. As her trail extends lower, she keeps expecting to touch the collar of his shirt, to hit a wall of gauzy fabric---but of course, there isn't one anymore. She can just keep going, and does, clutching onto his hair---his waist---to keep herself steady.

Loki exhales thickly as the tip of Y/N's nose brushes a nipple.

"Is this okay?" she asks, but its a stupid question, and she watches his pale stomach contract with a laugh.

"More than." A small suck at her ear.

A small moan from Y/N.

"I've been thinking about this since I saw you dragging that wretched mop over those blasted front steps," he said, the words low and gritty.