... She has reached the end of a chapter in her book, and sets it aside, glancing out the wide windows, shifting restlessly. Rising, she crosses the room to the pop machines for something to do, and taking the cold can it gives her, returns to her seat, but she does not pick up her book. Instead, she shuffles through the contents of her pack, fidgetting, feeling almost bored, and waiting for time to pass, so that she might move on to her plans for the evening. She stretches, a luxurious feeling that brings every muscle in her back and shoulders and arms back to life. At full reach, she wiggles her fingers, then throws her feet across the coffee table to stretch them also, wiggling her toes as well. Wriggling into a more comfortable position, with her feet now tucked up beneath her, she stretches her arms along the back of the couch until the strain across her shoulders becomes too much, then brings her arms back to clasp her hands behind her neck, fingers laced under her hair. She is somewhat startled by a firm grip enclosing on her joined wrists. There is an irrepressable, instinctive twitch of her pleasure centres; the contact is unfamiliar, but the potential meaning of the contact is not. Given her current position, she becomes very aware of a sense of vulnerablity, and something far more intense: an immediate sense of arousal. Without turning to look, she is aware of a head approaching her own, and instantly there is the feel of breath at her ears, and lips, gently tickling the hair that covers her ears as it is brushed aside. The whisper, the unexpected but anticipated approach that would seal her fate, caressed her senses as it spoke: "You have a dilemma here. You are vulnerable, and I have control," it says, a bare smile almost audible in its tone. |