Back home, she thinks, she'd probably reap some sort of punishment for this. It feels just enough like straying from the path, or grabbing at something she shouldn't. But she isn't home, and when he pulls her in, it feels less like being ensnared and more like being rewarded. Perhaps because they've both been punished enough for their respective misdeeds, already.
It helps that after an evening of being more physically distant than Greta had anticipated, they're simply, finally, close. She's always been tactile, and it's always been with some private exasperation that she's tolerated the more polite distances that Thomas has favored. Being like this, wrapped up in each other, is something she's always wanted more of, and she relaxes into his embrace with a quiet, contented sigh. If she can't have the evening she expected -- and after everything that's happened and the amount of gin that's been consumed, that is definitely a bust -- at least she can have this.
She melts into the kiss, sliding a hand up his chest, avoiding the temptation to delve into his conveniently unbuttoned shirt. "I'm holding you to that," she says, her cheeks flushed but her gaze frank. "Inviting me over on one of the only nights Saoirse isn't home...?" She adjusts his collar in playful admonishment, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "You gave me ideas."
She doesn't truly blame him. What was he supposed to do, ask, 'could you please come by so I can tell you something terrible about myself?' But if they're doing away with secrets, then there's not much point in being coy about the very idea of wanting one another, as if that, too, is something to be ashamed of.
no subject
Date: 2018-03-23 01:26 am (UTC)It helps that after an evening of being more physically distant than Greta had anticipated, they're simply, finally, close. She's always been tactile, and it's always been with some private exasperation that she's tolerated the more polite distances that Thomas has favored. Being like this, wrapped up in each other, is something she's always wanted more of, and she relaxes into his embrace with a quiet, contented sigh. If she can't have the evening she expected -- and after everything that's happened and the amount of gin that's been consumed, that is definitely a bust -- at least she can have this.
She melts into the kiss, sliding a hand up his chest, avoiding the temptation to delve into his conveniently unbuttoned shirt. "I'm holding you to that," she says, her cheeks flushed but her gaze frank. "Inviting me over on one of the only nights Saoirse isn't home...?" She adjusts his collar in playful admonishment, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "You gave me ideas."
She doesn't truly blame him. What was he supposed to do, ask, 'could you please come by so I can tell you something terrible about myself?' But if they're doing away with secrets, then there's not much point in being coy about the very idea of wanting one another, as if that, too, is something to be ashamed of.