Lead & Follow

Fondue*

Part 1: Lead

Eighteenth Movement, Fondue*

Fondue

(Lit. "melted")

fon·du

/ˌfänˈdo͞o,ˌfänˈdyo͞o/

BALLET

(of a position) involving a lowering of the body by bending the knee of the supporting leg.

"an arabesque fondue"

🖤🤍

 
[A/N: This chapter is s*xually explicit, a very descriptive 'lemon', if you will. Please, please proceed with caution. You can skip this chapter entirely and surmise from the next chapter that Reader and Baxter got intimate in this one. If profanity, vulgar terminology, or penetrative intercourse make you uncomfortable, please skip this chapter or click away. ❤️ Most importantly, this fic chapter in particular is rated 18+ for mature, adult readers. If you are a minor, please do not interact with this chapter. All smut chapters are skippable and indicated by an asterisk attached to the chapter title (i.e. 'fondue*'). Thanks. ❤️ 🍋]

-x-x-x-x-x-x

(🍋 ⬇️)

Baxter's eyes gleam in the waning light of your hotel room, and you practically melt under his half-lidded gaze.

The way he shuts your door is quiet, respectable. The way he leans against it? Decidedly not so. 

His pupils have blown wide to the point that you can scarcely see the familiar warmth of his brown irises, and his arms are crossed in front of his chest as he keeps silent, waiting.

Your mouth feels dry as you take in the sight of him. His hair is disheveled from an evening of rigorous physical activity, and his gaze is sultry as his eyes sweep over you with the same level of slow, careful attention. His soft pink lips are pursed, inviting. 

This is it , you think as you take a tentative step forward. It's now or never.

You've only ever carried a torch for two people, and your experience is limited to what you've done so far with Baxter and what you do yourself in the dead of night. 

He won't be this close again , you remind yourself and you ease forward until you've cornered him against the door. 

Your mind clouds with the memories of the last time you'd been this close, and your roles were reversed. You're inexperienced, but emboldened by the temptation to give him a dose of his own medicine.

Your body is flush against him, and you brace your hand against the door above his head. You stretch upwards and your mouth catches his.

His head thumps against the door and the low, throaty groan which escapes him spurs you on. You seize the opportunity of his open mouth to slide your tongue inside. It entangles with his own, and the friction and the heat of the exchange alights something in your core.

He tastes like peppermint .

Baxter is a silent observer no more; his hands ensnare you in a heated embrace–one hand delicately cups your head and presses you closer whilst the other, cool fingers on burning skin, slides under your baggy, sleep shirt to grip your bare hip.