[The hand sliding over his earns a harder, out-of-rhythm spasm of the hips that should be reserved for touching somewhere a little more sensitive. There's a raw, throaty grunting noise, taken fully by surprise before he slides a hand previously used to pull Ash's hips back into his thrusts up the front of the slick, wet body, over his slim neck, to his jawline to turn his face and take that stupid damned kiss, probing and wet and hopelessly smitten with his stupid, definitely unintentional cuteness. Maybe there's a better word than "cute" for it, but the journalist isn't thinking in words right now; he's only thinking in want, and shameless indulgence therein, as his hips slam harder, at a higher angle, as if to let gravity and the fact that Ash is supported enough his feet can leave the ground (with a little lean on the wall so he can push off of something to trust, too) make up for the hand no longer guiding the penetration.]
no subject