[ Somehow, Buffy has become the flying buttress of self control in this relationship (will 27). She carries on like this with him for a few minutes, years of mounting passion searching for an outlet, but she's the first one to break the kiss all the same. By the time she does, she's breathing hard, a short, soft laugh in her heady exhale.
Rafael might be able to forget the crowd, but no matter how many times she slips back into this indulgent fire they've started, she keeps coming back to reality. Whether the people milling about them realize he's Rafael Giovanni or not, it's edging on the wildly inappropriate.
Her eyes lift to search Rafael's, dark and wide and wanting. Men have waited centuries for a woman to look at them like Buffy looks on Rafael now, all muzzled desire. When she tries to open her mouth to speak, though, the words die on her tongue, throat drier than the Sahara as all her nerve leave her (will 15, one shy of crit fail …). The words don't come, though the fact that she wants to say something is easy to discern as she starts and stops according to hitches in her breath.
Finally, she drops her gaze, wussing out of whatever it was and turning away from him, pacing a few steps forward and fidgeting with her hands in front of her. She draws deep breaths as if trying to rein herself in, but no matter how full her lungs get, each breath is still hurried. ]
no subject
Rafael might be able to forget the crowd, but no matter how many times she slips back into this indulgent fire they've started, she keeps coming back to reality. Whether the people milling about them realize he's Rafael Giovanni or not, it's edging on the wildly inappropriate.
Her eyes lift to search Rafael's, dark and wide and wanting. Men have waited centuries for a woman to look at them like Buffy looks on Rafael now, all muzzled desire. When she tries to open her mouth to speak, though, the words die on her tongue, throat drier than the Sahara as all her nerve leave her (will 15, one shy of crit fail …). The words don't come, though the fact that she wants to say something is easy to discern as she starts and stops according to hitches in her breath.
Finally, she drops her gaze, wussing out of whatever it was and turning away from him, pacing a few steps forward and fidgeting with her hands in front of her. She draws deep breaths as if trying to rein herself in, but no matter how full her lungs get, each breath is still hurried. ]