The problem with this new angle, Steve quickly discovers, is that it makes him want to kiss her, especially when her tongue flicks out to wet her lips. Not for the first time, he laments the strange unspoken rules they've tied themselves to - kissing might very well be involved eventually, but not yet, not in the glacial advances of their intimacy. He loves it and curses it at the same time.
"What is it?" Because she's hardly going to mention having one if she doesn't mean to divulge it. That's not how being a spy works - by nature, Peggy is excellent at keeping secrets, especially her own. But what better time than this to pry them free, here in this strange little situation they've found themselves in? The closely held intimacy lends itself to the sharing of secrets, even if she can't quite turn to whisper them in Steve's ear like this.
No, she can't turn and whisper. Although she too would like to catch the shell of his ear on the edge of her lips and pour secrets straight to his heart. Straight lower too. What Peggy can do instead - bold and brave - is tilt her chin and cast her eyes upward so she can just-about-almost catch his eye. The angle is bizarre and perhaps a little dizzying; however, it only seems to add to her churning delight.
"I've had dreams near-exactly like this."
As disclaimed: it's not a very good secret. If Steve hadn't figured out by now that he's been running through her mind when they're apart then she's got serious concerns for the intellectual aptitude of their brilliant tactician. Although maybe a battlefield is so, so, so far away from this. Peggy doesn't think it is. Conflict and seduction are a little too conflated in her heart. Besides! The secret is less about the telling and more about the saying. Its power isn't in what it reveals but in how willing she is say it aloud. I think of you - like this - with some frequency; with plenty of desire.
Peggy's fingers grip that taut muscle just at the height of his hamstring - the curve of her wrist meeting the curve of his ass. Contoured to him with more promise than anything else.
Admittedly, Steve's somewhat eclectic erotic education has been dim, at best, on the act of female self-pleasure. He knows very well that it exists, but much like most men, doesn't give too much thought to the act of it (something which has just changed). Overall, it's not a surprise that Peggy has dirty fantasies about him, because he certainly has enough fantasies about her. But the thought of her acting on them when she's alone, and her willingness to admit to such a thing out loud - well.
He licks his lips, tries to bring more moisture to his suddenly dry mouth. "Yeah," he agrees, his voice a little husky. "Me too." Though possibly with a trifle more motion involved on his part, so to speak. He blushes again at the confession, though it slips free easily enough; surely it must be a logical conclusion on her part as well.
Her dry chuckle suggests that it's a conclusion she's come to (ha) well before tonight. Dry, but not unfriendly. Like there's affection in how she thinks not only on him acting on his frustrations but doubled affection in hearing him cop to it now. Peggy's mind runs away with her — could she ask? Some demonstration, some proof. But rather than say anything about it just now, she tucks the thought away. She's got a wager to win, after all, and what a forfeit that would be for him.
Instead, she lets herself get stuck into the present moment. The scrape of his voice when he freely gives her his 'confession,' already-guessed though it might be. The scant sound of his tongue on his lips and how — head tilted up — she could just about see it happen.
"Oh, yeah, I know." Blushing has been one of the banes of his existence up till now, a major part of every single failed date he's had, a regular embarrassment. But now Peggy seems to like it - though he can only imagine the delight she might take in eliciting blushes from him in the future. "You should see how far down it goes." That's how you flirt, right?
It's really unfair how composed Peggy always is, he thinks. He's been able to strip away a little of that composure with his touch so far, but he still knows which one of them is in charge here, and it's not him. (It's never him, and that doesn't bother him at all.)
Peggy does like it. The proof of the pudding is in the eating. And seeing even a brief warmth on his cheeks — in passing; across a table; ducking out of a doorway — reinforces for her that she isn't alone in this attraction. The imbalance barely occurs to her. She might delight in how a flush creeps up behind his ears, but she's happy to stay poised. Usually. Mostly.
A little less so tonight as she squirms in place, only just beginning to feel disatisfied with the pace she herself has set. Helped and hindered by his leveled challenge which, clumsy though it is, she finds legitimately endearing. Why, yes, she would like to trace the leading edge of his flushed skin however far it takes her. Like marking a map.
Is it too early to kiss him? Peggy hums a note before she twists in his arms, rolling onto her side again — but this time facing him. So, so, so close. And with a hold of his wrist, bold beneath the blanket, she makes sure his tentative touch doesn't leave her breast. Ensures his fingers are still against the silk, even though she thinks about guiding him under.
As Peggy twists in his arms, he blushes even more, and never mind he's basically invited her to undress him or the fact that he has his hand on her breast, somehow the sudden escalation of their embrace feels more intimate than all of that.
"Little cold to get undressed here," he quips with a wry, somewhat abashed grin. Is he supposed to kiss her now? Suddenly the old clumsiness is back, now that he can see her face again - or, rather, now that she can see his.
She offers a slow, sly shake of her head. Yes, it's tempting. But she's got ample self-control, doesn't she? Perhaps it's reward enough just to imagine undressing him. For now, she makes due with chasing her wonder across hus features. Eyeing his expression and the flush in his face.
"Don't fret," she drawls. "You can keep your clothes on." This time is implied.
And yet. Her turn to gently nudge a thigh between his knees. Only a hint - a possibility - for now.
Now he turns his attention back to touching her with another one of those light caresses, but this one is just under the silk cup of her bra. He would very much like to see Peggy undressed - would like to help do it himself, stripping off layer after layer to reveal the bare skin underneath - but maybe, as established, when it's not quite so cold. Instead, he drinks in the sight of her face, the way she looks when he touches her - and as the impulse strikes, he bends his head to her neck again, noses up to her ear.
"What if I win?" he whispers again. "Would you take your clothes off if I asked?" Practically dirty talk, coming from him. "Or should I save my wish for something else?" Implying, perhaps, that nudity is inevitable.
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"What is it?" Because she's hardly going to mention having one if she doesn't mean to divulge it. That's not how being a spy works - by nature, Peggy is excellent at keeping secrets, especially her own. But what better time than this to pry them free, here in this strange little situation they've found themselves in? The closely held intimacy lends itself to the sharing of secrets, even if she can't quite turn to whisper them in Steve's ear like this.
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"I've had dreams near-exactly like this."
As disclaimed: it's not a very good secret. If Steve hadn't figured out by now that he's been running through her mind when they're apart then she's got serious concerns for the intellectual aptitude of their brilliant tactician. Although maybe a battlefield is so, so, so far away from this. Peggy doesn't think it is. Conflict and seduction are a little too conflated in her heart. Besides! The secret is less about the telling and more about the saying. Its power isn't in what it reveals but in how willing she is say it aloud. I think of you - like this - with some frequency; with plenty of desire.
Peggy's fingers grip that taut muscle just at the height of his hamstring - the curve of her wrist meeting the curve of his ass. Contoured to him with more promise than anything else.
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He licks his lips, tries to bring more moisture to his suddenly dry mouth. "Yeah," he agrees, his voice a little husky. "Me too." Though possibly with a trifle more motion involved on his part, so to speak. He blushes again at the confession, though it slips free easily enough; surely it must be a logical conclusion on her part as well.
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Instead, she lets herself get stuck into the present moment. The scrape of his voice when he freely gives her his 'confession,' already-guessed though it might be. The scant sound of his tongue on his lips and how — head tilted up — she could just about see it happen.
"—Did you know that you blush?"
How terribly endearing when he does.
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It's really unfair how composed Peggy always is, he thinks. He's been able to strip away a little of that composure with his touch so far, but he still knows which one of them is in charge here, and it's not him. (It's never him, and that doesn't bother him at all.)
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A little less so tonight as she squirms in place, only just beginning to feel disatisfied with the pace she herself has set. Helped and hindered by his leveled challenge which, clumsy though it is, she finds legitimately endearing. Why, yes, she would like to trace the leading edge of his flushed skin however far it takes her. Like marking a map.
Is it too early to kiss him? Peggy hums a note before she twists in his arms, rolling onto her side again — but this time facing him. So, so, so close. And with a hold of his wrist, bold beneath the blanket, she makes sure his tentative touch doesn't leave her breast. Ensures his fingers are still against the silk, even though she thinks about guiding him under.
"Tempting."
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"Little cold to get undressed here," he quips with a wry, somewhat abashed grin. Is he supposed to kiss her now? Suddenly the old clumsiness is back, now that he can see her face again - or, rather, now that she can see his.
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"Don't fret," she drawls. "You can keep your clothes on." This time is implied.
And yet. Her turn to gently nudge a thigh between his knees. Only a hint - a possibility - for now.
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"What if I win?" he whispers again. "Would you take your clothes off if I asked?" Practically dirty talk, coming from him. "Or should I save my wish for something else?" Implying, perhaps, that nudity is inevitable.