That certain way that Rose is moving her hips signals for Pearl something like the beginning of a crescendo... And that's a knowledge no textbook or internet guide could have taught her, no; she's learned it over hours spent on her knees on the floor or between Rose's thighs in her bed, has slowly tuned her body to every consonant note of Rose's pleasure. And so she takes gasping breaths whenever she can, moving with every generous roll of Rose's hips. Never faltering.
Only Rose tugs her away, fingers wound in her hair.
Pearl moans a long moan of protest, and licks her lips almost desperately, as if Rose could still feel that way her mouth moves. But no, Rose can't -- doesn't want it -- and it's all because Pearl's been sloppy again--
She reaches for the knob with one shaking hand. The sudden absence of the water's patter leaves an echoing silence in the bathroom that sits queasily in the bottom of her stomach. Queasy, but something else too -- a tangled curl of anticipation that propels her towards whatever's coming next. She gazes up at Rose, some unvoiced plea in her eyes. For what? She's at the point where she barely knows, herself, anymore.
The order to move hits her right in the gut -- sinks straight to her bones. And still Pearl hesitates, caught in an echo of Rose's earlier words: You must be desperate not to leave this room on your feet.
It calls up a ruinous mental image: herself on hands and knees, head hanging, crawling to the bed, tracking water behind her. It makes her skin heat in a way that's entirely different from the remembered steam of the shower water. It's a trap, maybe: Rose is remarkably good at setting those, at predicting the exact way Pearl's faltering impulses will betray her. And so after a long moment of indecision she pushes herself to her feet -- with another testing, apologetic glance at Rose -- and shivers as she steps over the threshold of the shower. Water's still trickling down her legs. Oh, she's going to soak the bed, in more ways than one. Such a mess, isn’t she? Always a mess.
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Only Rose tugs her away, fingers wound in her hair.
Pearl moans a long moan of protest, and licks her lips almost desperately, as if Rose could still feel that way her mouth moves. But no, Rose can't -- doesn't want it -- and it's all because Pearl's been sloppy again--
She reaches for the knob with one shaking hand. The sudden absence of the water's patter leaves an echoing silence in the bathroom that sits queasily in the bottom of her stomach. Queasy, but something else too -- a tangled curl of anticipation that propels her towards whatever's coming next. She gazes up at Rose, some unvoiced plea in her eyes. For what? She's at the point where she barely knows, herself, anymore.
The order to move hits her right in the gut -- sinks straight to her bones. And still Pearl hesitates, caught in an echo of Rose's earlier words: You must be desperate not to leave this room on your feet.
It calls up a ruinous mental image: herself on hands and knees, head hanging, crawling to the bed, tracking water behind her. It makes her skin heat in a way that's entirely different from the remembered steam of the shower water. It's a trap, maybe: Rose is remarkably good at setting those, at predicting the exact way Pearl's faltering impulses will betray her. And so after a long moment of indecision she pushes herself to her feet -- with another testing, apologetic glance at Rose -- and shivers as she steps over the threshold of the shower. Water's still trickling down her legs. Oh, she's going to soak the bed, in more ways than one. Such a mess, isn’t she? Always a mess.