August 16 [c.l & p.g]

𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧

┌────────────┐
taking my soul inch by inch,
i go insane,
melt into your flame.
└────────────┘

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞 ˖*°࿐

𝐉𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝟐𝟑𝐫𝐝.

We stand single file.

Pierre.

Me.

Charles.

"I'm gonna shower," Charles announces from behind me as we step into the apartment.

He brushes around me, sliding his hands over my body despite the ample amount of room he has to manoeuvre himself. When he disappears, I'm left to follow Pierre through to the kitchen.

He's already unbuttoned most of his shirt, leaving tufts of chest hair and the slightest glimpse of his muscular form exposed for my viewing. I'm struggling to sit on the bar stool at his island bench, practically throwing this dress around because I can't function around him when he looks like that.

"Let's get you out of that dress," he purrs.

He's behind me, fiddling with the clasp that the back of my neck. I can't say no. 

I don't want to.

I've been teased and edged all night long, and now everything that has consumed my thoughts is within my reach. His fingers glide along my shoulders pushing the glittering mesh down, I pull my arms out.

I think he's going to stop, but I should know better because this is Pierre. He likes to push buttons. He's a shit-stirrer at heart.

His hands rest upon my décolletage, it's as if he's waiting for my next breath, because when it comes in deep and heavy, his hands continue their perusal downwards. The pads of his fingers brush against my nipples, and it's all the contact I need, that alone could have brought an orgasm crashing through me.

The dress falls with his hands, and when they pass my hips, the material puddles around me and I'm left in his kitchen wearing nothing but a black thong.

"Christ," he groans.

He licks up the side of my neck, chasing the lipstick Charles had smeared there less than an hour ago. I throw my head back into his chest and moan.

"Cold?" He asks and brushes his thumbs over my peaked nipples.

He steps back and I lose his warmth, I turn to chase him, throw my arms around him and pull his body back against find. I'm desperate for warmth. I'm desperate for friction.

I'd do anything for it.

Pierre's hands work so quick they seems to move in a blur of fleshy colour, he throws his shirt off and puts it around my shoulders. Easing me into it like a doll he's dressing up; one arm at a time, he trails kisses over my forearm as he rolls the sleeve up to my elbow. He repeats the action again for my other arm.

"Why are you giving me this?" I ask, blinking up at him.

It's the first thing I've said since my conversation with Charles.

"Because I see you parading yourself around in Charles' shirts, I need to see you in something that's mine."

"Buttons or no buttons?" He mumbles to himself, assessing the way I look. "No buttons," he determines.

He wraps his arms around me, his big hands landing on the backs of my thighs, and he picks me up, sitting me on the kitchen counter. I cradle the sides of his face, tilting my head down to bring us closer.