Watching her scamper out of the bathroom and crashing down the hall is far better than whatever novella Rose had planned on for the evening. It also makes it very, very tough to resist giving chase.
Rose has to bite back a giggle as she shrugs into her bathrobe. That might be too mean.
She still gives an extra twenty seconds' pause, though, before making any move to leave. Anticipation is key. (May as well bring the towel along, too. If all goes well, they'll end up needing it.)
"Oh, very nice. So speedy!" Even facedown on the bed, Pearl's posture stiffens at Rose's entrance. Good. The towel is folded and placed on the doorside dresser; Rose isn't too careful about doing it quietly. It's fun to let Pearl wonder. When drawers clatter, or objects rattle, and a partner can't see what's being done... well. The mind can shuffle through a very entertaining catalog of possibilities. "If dance ever gives you any problems, you can always try for track."
Rose considers rifling around for a few toys and ties. Making a big show of the selection process -- lots of thoughtful humming, and tutting, (not to mention quick battery checks for the vibes). A minor touch, but pleasantly effective. It takes so little to put the girl on edge. To curl Pearl's nerves tighter, and tighter, tight and tuned as a stringed-thing, and then play her into wails... Tease until she begs for mercy, then please until she cries --
Her chest snags, icy. The image of Pearl crushed into the corner of the stall, shivering with heat, racked with quiet little sobs...
Rose doesn't rifle through her dresser. She doesn't. She pads over to the bed, instead. She braces one knee on the mattress, and -- careful, slow -- settles along next to Pearl. They're close enough that the bathrobe brushes a bare knee.
With her arms pulled back like this, prone and hazy, Pearl's body is all invitation. Rose wants to sigh. Her shoulder blades each cut a dashing jut beneath her gauzy skin: mottled soft with freckles, sun damage, acne scars. Rose is close enough to see the fine little hairs directing traffic down Pearl's backbone, and she finds herself leaning closer. She finds herself kissing them. It's pleasant but bemusing. A few licks of curls unsettle from where Rose has tucked them over her own shoulder -- they spill, tickling the misty dip of Pearl's back.
(She really is gorgeous.)
"Quick check-in," Rose croons. It's an important cue. The only guarantee Pearl has that this isn't a trap -- that she should speak freely. "Alright, sweet thing? Anything feel bad?"
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Rose has to bite back a giggle as she shrugs into her bathrobe. That might be too mean.
She still gives an extra twenty seconds' pause, though, before making any move to leave. Anticipation is key. (May as well bring the towel along, too. If all goes well, they'll end up needing it.)
"Oh, very nice. So speedy!" Even facedown on the bed, Pearl's posture stiffens at Rose's entrance. Good. The towel is folded and placed on the doorside dresser; Rose isn't too careful about doing it quietly. It's fun to let Pearl wonder. When drawers clatter, or objects rattle, and a partner can't see what's being done... well. The mind can shuffle through a very entertaining catalog of possibilities. "If dance ever gives you any problems, you can always try for track."
Rose considers rifling around for a few toys and ties. Making a big show of the selection process -- lots of thoughtful humming, and tutting, (not to mention quick battery checks for the vibes). A minor touch, but pleasantly effective. It takes so little to put the girl on edge. To curl Pearl's nerves tighter, and tighter, tight and tuned as a stringed-thing, and then play her into wails... Tease until she begs for mercy, then please until she cries --
Her chest snags, icy. The image of Pearl crushed into the corner of the stall, shivering with heat, racked with quiet little sobs...
Rose doesn't rifle through her dresser. She doesn't. She pads over to the bed, instead. She braces one knee on the mattress, and -- careful, slow -- settles along next to Pearl. They're close enough that the bathrobe brushes a bare knee.
With her arms pulled back like this, prone and hazy, Pearl's body is all invitation. Rose wants to sigh. Her shoulder blades each cut a dashing jut beneath her gauzy skin: mottled soft with freckles, sun damage, acne scars. Rose is close enough to see the fine little hairs directing traffic down Pearl's backbone, and she finds herself leaning closer. She finds herself kissing them. It's pleasant but bemusing. A few licks of curls unsettle from where Rose has tucked them over her own shoulder -- they spill, tickling the misty dip of Pearl's back.
(She really is gorgeous.)
"Quick check-in," Rose croons. It's an important cue. The only guarantee Pearl has that this isn't a trap -- that she should speak freely. "Alright, sweet thing? Anything feel bad?"