It wasn't that he had a massively huge libido, most of the time. He was used to going months between port visits, and even during those it was fairly rare for him to indulge (if not completely unheard of). So it wasn't like he was a hot shot teenager who needed to desperately stick his dick in everything that moved.
Right now, though? Christ, he felt like one.
He started to move his fingers inside her with a clear purpose, each movement a mimicked thrust, each a little faster than the one before. It wasn't enough - it wasn't anywhere near enough - and it was hard to remember why it was a bad idea to keep going. He couldn't help himself, groaning as he pulled her a little closer, grasping himself over her hand and angling himself up. He gently teased the head of his cock against her clit before sliding it further, bumping his own knuckles as the fingers of his other hand kept moving inside of her.
That's about as far as Bobbie's willpower can stretch, and the sensation coaxes a needy, almost frustrated moan from her. She knows he's not doing it intentionally, but he's teasing her, and she can't handle it anymore, so she doesn't bother trying. She shifts, lifting herself up and away from his fingers, even though just that loss of touch feels suddenly unthinkable. Bobbie uses her hand, still trapped under his, to guide him that last sliver of distance toward her entrance, though she doesn't ease herself down just yet.
He lifts his head to meet her eyes, his own dark with need, and it's clear he's holding himself back, even now, even when he's finding it nearly impossible.
"Yeah," he says, breathlessly, his hands moving to her hips instead, to try to coax her down. "I got you, Gunny."
Silly or not, that statement sends a warm rush of affection through her, and she smiles as she leans in to kiss him. She lets him guide her down, her hands going to his shoulders to steady herself as she does. It's a miracle that she manages to do it so slowly--as soon as he slips inside of her, the urge to roll her hips against him is dizzying, but she manages to keep still, need translating to a useless little shudder instead. Screw the gunshot wound--this is going to be the thing that kills her, she's sure of it.
He lets out a shakey breath against her lips, returning the kiss with something that could only really be called gratitude. He was actually incredibly careful, though part of the slowness also had to do with the fact that he didn't want to overwhelm himself, which would be all too easy. He slid into her like he was made for her, and he moaned, deep and low, as he slowly rolled his hips up until he was fully buried inside of her.
Thinking was impossible, every time he tried it short circuited his brain, but he kept his hands on her hips. He wanted to say something, could feel the urge to tell her just how gorgeous she was right there on the end of his tongue, but the words wouldn't form. He gave up, kissing her again instead, hoping that would be enough to convey just how much the moment meant to him as he slowly began to roll his hips in an achingly slow rythym.
Bobbie doesn't generally consider herself a very sappy person or even much of a romantic, but when he kisses her, she finds herself wanting to tell him something, too. How much she missed him, maybe, or how she never, ever wants to leave, not after this, but she can't manage it. She's too lost in him, in the slow, tantalizing movement of him inside of her, so she just shifts enough to wrap her legs around him, pressing forward to eliminate that last sliver of space between them. Impressively, she's keeping her promise and just letting him set the pace. She doesn't really trust herself enough to do anything else.
He puts a hand back, bracing his weight so that he could raise his hips a little higher, so that every slow rolling thrust had a little more leverage, letting him press deeper. He still keeps the pace slow, half for her and half for himself, for trying to draw out this moment as long as he possibly could. If he'd expected this, if he'd planned it, there would have been dinner before this and she wouldn't have a gun wound and --
-- And it didn't matter. She was perfect, and nothing else mattered.
Despite all of her desperation before, each roll of his hips is just driving home how much she needed this. It's slow and sweet and almost comforting. They have all the time in the world, which means she can spend it savoring every little touch and sensation, and memorizing the way her body fits against his. It's turning into a steady, inevitable build. Bobbie lets out a quiet sound, lips still pressed against his, then takes his free hand in hers and tugs his arm around her waist.
Every tiny quiet sound sends a jolt right down to his cock, almost timed perfectly with a thrust and nearly making him dizzy with pure pleasure. His arm tightens around her waist, careful to give plenty of clearance to the bandage an the wound, but securing her in place against him as he continues to slowly thrust up into her.
He has to break the kiss, mostly to breathe, and presses his face into her throat, instead, placing kiss after kiss along her skin as he moved. He murmured her name so low that it was hard to tell if he said 'Bobbie' or 'Gunny', the cadence being so close. It didn't really matter. It was only her, that he was thinking of.
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It wasn't that he had a massively huge libido, most of the time. He was used to going months between port visits, and even during those it was fairly rare for him to indulge (if not completely unheard of). So it wasn't like he was a hot shot teenager who needed to desperately stick his dick in everything that moved.
Right now, though? Christ, he felt like one.
He started to move his fingers inside her with a clear purpose, each movement a mimicked thrust, each a little faster than the one before. It wasn't enough - it wasn't anywhere near enough - and it was hard to remember why it was a bad idea to keep going. He couldn't help himself, groaning as he pulled her a little closer, grasping himself over her hand and angling himself up. He gently teased the head of his cock against her clit before sliding it further, bumping his own knuckles as the fingers of his other hand kept moving inside of her.
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"Gentle, remember?"
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"Yeah," he says, breathlessly, his hands moving to her hips instead, to try to coax her down. "I got you, Gunny."
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Thinking was impossible, every time he tried it short circuited his brain, but he kept his hands on her hips. He wanted to say something, could feel the urge to tell her just how gorgeous she was right there on the end of his tongue, but the words wouldn't form. He gave up, kissing her again instead, hoping that would be enough to convey just how much the moment meant to him as he slowly began to roll his hips in an achingly slow rythym.
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-- And it didn't matter. She was perfect, and nothing else mattered.
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He has to break the kiss, mostly to breathe, and presses his face into her throat, instead, placing kiss after kiss along her skin as he moved. He murmured her name so low that it was hard to tell if he said 'Bobbie' or 'Gunny', the cadence being so close. It didn't really matter. It was only her, that he was thinking of.