[ Eddie's only known Tommy for a few hours, but that doesn't seem to matter much to her at all. In her slightly more reckless youth, she's fucked people she's known only a few minutes, attractive strangers met in bars and clubs, and so far she's been incredibly lucky that nothing horrible has come of it.
Certainly nothing horrible can happen to her tonight. She's warm, she's a little high, and she's currently being undressed by someone who saved her life. He wouldn't have gone to all that trouble if he was going to be a fucking creep the second he takes her shirt off.
Actually, that's a great idea. She lets Tommy peel off her t-shirt and then immediately reaches for his, helping him struggle out of it before she has to stop to kiss him again. He can figure out his wet jeans, she's busy. Eventually, somehow, they manage to get the rest of their clothes off, one damp piece at a time, and then it's just miles of warm, tanned skin pressed against hers. She has a crystal clear image of her pale, inked legs wrapped around his waist as her fingers curl in his hair, Tommy's head bent over her chest, his fingers and his mouth working to make her gasp and writhe, and then the next moment she remembers with any clarity is him fumbling through her disaster of a room to find the condoms he'd tossed somewhere.
It all goes like that, really, moments in time so detailed that they feel like photographs, followed by a pleasurable haze where she can't really recall the specifics but she knows she feels good. That's what's important, after all, isn't it?
She even tells him that, at one point, how good she feels with her hands braced on his chest, rocking her hips down against his. She lets her mouth fall open and a torrent of semi-coherent bullshit spills free, expletives and praise alike as she gets more and more worked up, her damp hair hanging in her eyes and her mouth red and a little swollen from him kissing her and the way she keeps biting her lips to keep from making too much noise. ]
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Certainly nothing horrible can happen to her tonight. She's warm, she's a little high, and she's currently being undressed by someone who saved her life. He wouldn't have gone to all that trouble if he was going to be a fucking creep the second he takes her shirt off.
Actually, that's a great idea. She lets Tommy peel off her t-shirt and then immediately reaches for his, helping him struggle out of it before she has to stop to kiss him again. He can figure out his wet jeans, she's busy. Eventually, somehow, they manage to get the rest of their clothes off, one damp piece at a time, and then it's just miles of warm, tanned skin pressed against hers. She has a crystal clear image of her pale, inked legs wrapped around his waist as her fingers curl in his hair, Tommy's head bent over her chest, his fingers and his mouth working to make her gasp and writhe, and then the next moment she remembers with any clarity is him fumbling through her disaster of a room to find the condoms he'd tossed somewhere.
It all goes like that, really, moments in time so detailed that they feel like photographs, followed by a pleasurable haze where she can't really recall the specifics but she knows she feels good. That's what's important, after all, isn't it?
She even tells him that, at one point, how good she feels with her hands braced on his chest, rocking her hips down against his. She lets her mouth fall open and a torrent of semi-coherent bullshit spills free, expletives and praise alike as she gets more and more worked up, her damp hair hanging in her eyes and her mouth red and a little swollen from him kissing her and the way she keeps biting her lips to keep from making too much noise. ]