Title: Insatiate #9
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Whatever happens, this is.
Notes: S3, no spoilers
They finish patrol close to sunrise, and they're closer to the Summers house than to the motel. So Faith strips down to a tank top and panties, lays a blanket down, and crashes on Buffy's bedroom floor.
It's still dark outside, but the sticky-hot presses against Faith's skin. She kicks her legs free of the tangled cotton, feels the buzz of post-slaying play over her fingertips, a streak of sensation down her torso, between her legs.
She bites her lip, bends her knees and digs her heels into the carpet. Dips her hand into her panties and arches. Pushes her tank top up, cups a breast with her other hand.
It's barely three minutes before she comes, then another five and half for her second orgasm. There's a rustle of cloth above her, and Faith smiles.
She knows Buffy is watching. It's why she's doing it in the first place.
She spreads her legs wider, and goes for a third.
A/N: Title and summary adapted from Adrienne Rich's The Floating Poem, Unnumbered:
Whatever happens with us, your body
will haunt mine -- tender, delicate
your lovemaking, like the half-curled frond
of the fiddlehead fern in forests
just washed by sun. Your traveled, generous thighs
between which my whole face has come and come --
the innocence and wisdom of the place my tongue has found there --
the live, insatiate dance of your nipples in my mouth --
your touch on me, firm, protective, searching
me out, your strong tongue and slender fingers
reaching where I have been waiting years for you
in my rose-wet cave -- whatever happens, this is.