His hands are on your back.
It is not a passion play by any means. Your inherent personalities would never allow you to entertain anything so certain. But for all that there are lines, and roles and expectations as well. He has his place, and you have yours. In that moment the two are meeting as his fingers play down the laces of your corset as a musician might a harp. The chords struck however, are internal. Small, intimate sounds that you refuse to allow taste air and be entered as evidence of weakness in your near-constant arguments. So pleasure hides in the deeper recesses of your mouth, leaving your throat thick and hot with the taste of it.
His fingers drift lower and the musical composition created is not so much confident as it is curious. As if he is uncertain what reaction each touch might garner, and how frustration breaks over you in waves with every hesitation. He is playing you, yes. But not playing with you. You laugh aloud, the warm and wet in your mouth exposed. He hesitates yet again. You know even as he remains intentionally, blissfully unaware. It is not that sort of dance.
The fire sets the room to shadows and light, licking at the heart with an opulent sensuality that echoes of the time that was before. The way the flames cut and illuminate both of your bodies is a reminder that it remains the master artist, even as everyone else is humble apprentice. Clothing is an innocent ideal, and despite a liberal use of fabric you are unprotected and exposed.
His fingers travel upwards again, the full length of your back. The fire, of course, choses that moment to fall silent and every sound that struggles into almost being is far too audible for your liking. There is subtle pressure on your shoulder, and more hesitation. Action has birthed a reaction and they recognize their power now, ten impatient individuals muscled and calloused from battles that have nothing to do with what is happening in this room. Which only makes them that much more appealing.
He pulls at your laces, slowly, as if waiting for you to command him to stop. But you do not. You are sure that there are countless reasons why. But the moment is too swift for them and truthfully? You are simply enjoying the feel of him. His breath disturbs the hair at the base of your neck, though oddly it now feels in place, rather than out of it.
Inch by inch he works your laces down, the soft song of silk against silk filling the room. His motions are unexpectedly even, the rhythm in his work specific and precise. You bristle at the idea that somewhere, somehow there are instructions to your form, your life. You are far to complex. Indeed you demand that of yourself. So why does it feel as if he is reading it all the same, following its guidelines with care. He has far, far too much power of you.
You yield to it, and it aches.
The corset is removed, unlaced and pushed forward until it collects in your lap. Your refuse to touch it, for to do so is to acknowledge that it is there. That something has changed. The chemise below is lifted higher as well. And then he stops. Both hands, a touch away from freshly-exposed skin. Somewhere just above your hips, below your breasts and he is waiting. Waiting.
Waiting for what. What does he want? And what are his wants even composed of that they are so unlike yours? To be there, and not. To reach, but not touch. To not touch. Not take, not know? Awareness was never meant to have such a long lifespan. Not when it lived like this, with such intensity.
You pull a breath to tell him just that, only to feel his smile. Right there, between your shoulder blades. The force of it. You can taste his victory in your own mouth, even though you have not kissed and are surely certain not to now. But instead another breath, uneven with your frustrations. A third catches in your throat, captured there as your lungs and chest expand with unhindered breath. You are full of it, and now? Now he fully has you.
He had you all the time, you sense he is informing you. With that know-it-all expression that should never be as attractive as it is. He was simply waiting for you to occupy all the space you were meant to. His longest fingers have caught themselves just underneath your breasts, massaging. It is distracting in a manageable way.
You sit there, silently, holding the breath that was so complicated in its creation. It sits in your lungs until it burns. You are so demanding of yourself, and your emotions. You have always been impatient, always reaching out and pulling in. But now you simply exist, quietly. And let your emotions come to you, wash over you as they will. When it comes, whatever comes, it causes your nails catch so soundly on the settee that you can feel the pressure pushing back soundly against bed and bone.
You exhale, and as your body moves he travels with it. Exploring you as he does everything else.
Something was won then, and something lost. A few moments later you manage something about kissing you then. He, as if to spite you, asks why. You reply that he best do so before you lower yourself so far as informing him he was right. And finally?
"Reinette?" The TARDIS is a home of imaginable depths. How his voice manages to carry through all of it, she would never know. "Are you ready to go?"
"When am I not," she challenged. The subtle teasing between them was expected now.
The Doctor's head appeared in her doorway, and he took in the sight of her reading by the fire.
"Any chance I could talk you into, you know..." He pointed, fiercely, in her direction. Reinette could all but feel the force of it where she sat. "Wearing anything bit that?" The accusing finger now traveled up and down the length of her corset.
She laughed, then stood and took a moment to straighten her skirts. Her smile left no argument.