Work Text:
She did not expect to end up like this.
She hoped, of course. Perhaps hope is too much of a strong word, too chaste, even, for whatever near disgusting somersaults her stomach does whenever in the same vicinity as her. Throat constricting, tongue heavy inside her dried-up mouth, lips twisting despite herself — yearning to kiss until swollen.
Yearning seems to fit better, she muses. She feels it even when a hand splays itself against her stomach, heel of the palm firm atop her sternum. Yearns for more, wishes the girl would press closer, hopes she would stop being that gentle.
Still Andreja remains gentle, the only thing uncomfortable being the edge of the desk digging against Sarah's lower back. The red jacket had been discarded, which she's subconsciously grateful for, feeling too hot underneath the still on shirt. It has not been flung away, though, which she is consciously grateful for — it dangles from the desk, trapped between her palm and wood, something she can actually bunch up between fingers and twist impatiently. Otherwise, she knows she would give in to the urge to bury them between the other woman's hair, undo the braids — and she knows she wouldn't be gentle, knows she would feel like shit over the manhandling after.
"You are shaking, Miss Morgan."
And Sarah expels a trembling laugh that is more air than amusement, throat working at the honorific. Looks down and damn nearly chokes on her own saliva at the sight between her thighs, Andreja's mouth glistening and swollen, brown eyes infinitely big looking up at her in concern.
The leather creaks beneath her nails, teeth clicks when she bites down the sudden whimper that nearly escaped from the view.
"I can stop," it had barely left the other woman's lips before the blonde one is shaking her head, the hand that had been bracing herself against the desk latching tightly around the wrist at her stomach.
"Don't," and barely restrains from cringing over how desperate her voice sounds.
It does work. Andreja does not stop.