Your thigh presses right up against his groin. He's not sure if that's purposeful or not. It seems likely that it is. Your nails scraping against his skin as you grab handfuls of his shirt and pull him nearer suggest so. It suggests that you want this.
You want this. That's an extreme level of dedication to tonight.
He doesn't want to question it any longer. Whatever your reasons are—and he plans to ask in the morning—they're reasons that work towards the same outcome as his own desires. He should have drank more at the house. Doubting comes too naturally now, but he can try to ignore for the moment.
The slide of your tongue against his helps.
As he falls into the rhythm of the kiss, he twists his body and pushes with his hand on the roof until your slide further down into the seat, reclined so he can stretch out on top of you. It shifts his weight from his knees to his hips against yours, stomachs pressed together. His foot scrapes against the floor of the car as he shoves his body into alignment with yours, his thigh pressed against your groin in a mirror image to your thigh against his, locked together like puzzle pieces. The full body contact feels blessedly good. No one has touched him in months. He can't help arching into your hands, groaning in the back of his throat when they slide over his skin through his shirt. He wants more of your skin. He wants more of you, always.
Sucking on your tongue, his hand slides down your neck to your shoulder, trailing down the bare skin of your arm. The tips of his fingers brush under the hem of your sleeve. It's an accident when they skim over the bottom edge of raised scar tissue, the handprint he branded into your body and soul, but it makes him moan all the same in surprise. He'd forgotten. He doesn't know how he forgot that. You're the soul he found in hell and marked as his own. You're Dean. His.
Breaking away from your mouth with a rough gasp, he buries his face into your neck, gently biting at the skin around the collar of your t-shirt. His hips rolls against yours, blood making his dick twitch and harden. "Dean." He growls against your neck, and shoves his hips down hard against yours once. His hand finds your forearm near his side, grasping it tightly, before he changes his mind and instead worms his fingers under your t-shirt. He strokes up your side, and then across your stomach, shoving your shirt up to your chest so he can duck down to suck an open mouth kiss above your navel. Breathing hard, he works his way back up your body, scraping his teeth over the curve of your ribs, and licking over a nipple, before he presses a kiss to the center of your chest, palm smoothing across your collarbones.
He lingers there, just breathing. "Dean." His pulse beats steadily in the creases of his thighs, drawing his attention to the way his erection presses against the fly of his jeans. Raising up on his knees, he sweeps a hand through his hair and stares down at you. He doesn't know what to do now. Where you'll draw the line. Where they should draw the line. They still need the ability to work together, after all. His tongue sneaks out to prod his lower lip; his mouth feels swollen and numb. The car feels very warm now.
no subject
You want this. That's an extreme level of dedication to tonight.
He doesn't want to question it any longer. Whatever your reasons are—and he plans to ask in the morning—they're reasons that work towards the same outcome as his own desires. He should have drank more at the house. Doubting comes too naturally now, but he can try to ignore for the moment.
The slide of your tongue against his helps.
As he falls into the rhythm of the kiss, he twists his body and pushes with his hand on the roof until your slide further down into the seat, reclined so he can stretch out on top of you. It shifts his weight from his knees to his hips against yours, stomachs pressed together. His foot scrapes against the floor of the car as he shoves his body into alignment with yours, his thigh pressed against your groin in a mirror image to your thigh against his, locked together like puzzle pieces. The full body contact feels blessedly good. No one has touched him in months. He can't help arching into your hands, groaning in the back of his throat when they slide over his skin through his shirt. He wants more of your skin. He wants more of you, always.
Sucking on your tongue, his hand slides down your neck to your shoulder, trailing down the bare skin of your arm. The tips of his fingers brush under the hem of your sleeve. It's an accident when they skim over the bottom edge of raised scar tissue, the handprint he branded into your body and soul, but it makes him moan all the same in surprise. He'd forgotten. He doesn't know how he forgot that. You're the soul he found in hell and marked as his own. You're Dean. His.
Breaking away from your mouth with a rough gasp, he buries his face into your neck, gently biting at the skin around the collar of your t-shirt. His hips rolls against yours, blood making his dick twitch and harden. "Dean." He growls against your neck, and shoves his hips down hard against yours once. His hand finds your forearm near his side, grasping it tightly, before he changes his mind and instead worms his fingers under your t-shirt. He strokes up your side, and then across your stomach, shoving your shirt up to your chest so he can duck down to suck an open mouth kiss above your navel. Breathing hard, he works his way back up your body, scraping his teeth over the curve of your ribs, and licking over a nipple, before he presses a kiss to the center of your chest, palm smoothing across your collarbones.
He lingers there, just breathing. "Dean." His pulse beats steadily in the creases of his thighs, drawing his attention to the way his erection presses against the fly of his jeans. Raising up on his knees, he sweeps a hand through his hair and stares down at you. He doesn't know what to do now. Where you'll draw the line. Where they should draw the line. They still need the ability to work together, after all. His tongue sneaks out to prod his lower lip; his mouth feels swollen and numb. The car feels very warm now.