#hdhdfh I don’t know what to tag this jeez

[rosefinnigen]

(Aaaa hey guys I did a writing thing and it’s not finished and I’m so nervous to show you but if I don’t I’m gonna forget about it in my notes app!! Tell me if you like it :))

He catches your eye across the bar. Well dressed, with eyes like bourbon, honeyed and sharp in a way that makes your cheeks flush. You buy him a drink; his hand doesn’t stray from your hip the rest of the night.

He asks you to dinner the next day. You spend the meal constantly distracted by his hands, the slow, almost hypnotic way he speaks. You make it into his car after dinner before you’re pressed together, all biting kisses and tangled legs where he presses you into the seats. It’s only when he begins to trail kisses down your stomach and lift your skirt over your thighs that you remember yourself and push him back, your legs trembling.

“N-not yet,” you barely stutter out. He gives a little smile and buckles you in with another soft kiss to your forehead.

“Next time,” he promises.

Next time is a coffee date, which ends up turning into a lunch date and a walk in the park followed by ice cream that melts down your arms in the summer heat. He licks your fingers clean, and you could almost swear he moans around them.

Later, in your apartment. “So sweet,” he grins from between your legs. You wonder if the ice cream had anything to do with it.

Another dinner date, then several more. “You must try the tiramisu,” he says. “Oh, the apple cobbler here is to die for,” at another. It becomes a nightly routine, treating you to the city’s richest flavors. Afterward he is ravenous in turn, washing you in kisses and pressing fingers wherever you’re softest.

“Look at you,” he growls against your neck. “Mmh, good fucking girl.”

You begin to have an inkling of what you’re being praised for in relatively short order. But, never one to jump to conclusions, you set to testing your suspicion.

“Hm… You order for me, I don’t know what to pick.” Is that — no, it couldn’t be the slightest hint of pink on the tips of his ears, could it? “I’ve been really hungry today, I’m not sure why. Honestly, everything looks good.” You could swear his voice is a little more hoarse as he tells your orders to the waitress. But you can’t be sure, because by the time the food arrives you really *are* hungry, and he’s monologuing in that endearing way again, and before you know it half the pasta is gone and you’re glad you wore a dress with some stretch to it.

You lean back, taking a deep breath and trying not to show how full you already are. But he catches on, and with a curious glint in his eye, he asks, “Is the food not agreeing with you?”

“Oh, no, it’s delicious!” you say, slightly breathless. “Just, um, a little more filling than I expected.”

He hums noncommittally, but seems to be watching you closely now, as if waiting to see what you’ll do.

It feels electric, doesn’t it? Picking your fork back up and twirling it in your fettuccine. Slowly, deliberately raising it to your mouth, chewing and swallowing.

The corners of his mouth twitch upward. “Good girl,” he murmurs, so quiet you almost miss it.