Feathers rise around her as she rolls them in the mess of aged finery, tattered velvet and thick goose down, straddling him with her dark hair sticking damply to her breasts, his hands settling at her waist. "I win," she says out of the blue--it wasn't a contest or a game, but it seems the thing to say, grinning down at him proud as a child with a new toy.
His eyes gleam up at her, mismatched pupils wide open, dark and liquid. His smile is quick, knife-flash thin and sinful. "No," he says, but it's rote contradiction; his fingers trail up her sides, tracing over the laddered arch of her ribs, up the sleek flesh to the weight of her breast.
She slides her hands up his skin, sweat-slick and pale, bends to kiss his mouth and shudders and cries out with ragged incoherence when it shifts him in her. Oh, she thinks, and then her nails dig into his chest and she moves against him with a slow, languid rhythm.
"Yessss," she says, panting, half-laughing and writhing into his touch. "Umm. Definitely. Not debatable. Who's on top, again?" She teases breathlessly, watching his eyes go lazily slitted under her touch like a stroked cat.
He reaches up with his free hand, curls his fingers through her hair. Yanks her down so that her forehead is pressed to his as her mouth falls open in a low, panting cry. Held there he kisses her, softly vicious, his sharp teeth biting not-quite-gently into her lower lip. Her eyelashes flutter and she shudders against him--then clenches, hot and slick, around him. He hisses and his head arches back into the pillows, fingers biting into her skin, knotting in her hair.
"Oh," she mumbles against his skin, "I really think I win."