She's wearing his shirt, (his shirt, he thinks), and the sight is enough to make him go instantly hard.
When he steps into her room, she's sitting cross legged on her bed and as she looks up from painting her nails she immediately blushes. Talk of laundry and really needing a washing machine around here goes unheard by his ears, which are quickly becoming red at the tips from the picture of her.
The Doctor, Lord of Time, the Oncoming Storm and the stuff of legend or rather the legend of stuff on certain planets he's visited, just stands in Rose Tyler's doorway speechless, admiring through lidded eyes how low she's buttoned his shirt and how the rolled up sleeves showcase her slender wrists quite effectively. Wrists he's never really taken much notice of before, and he can't help but deeply regret the missed opportunity since now that he's noticed them he also can't help but notice how he could encircle her wrist with his fingers and thumb the sensitive skin over her veins.
And of course he's noticing other things too. (Blonde hair pulled back in a messy tangle, or a knot of some sort. Loose strands that fall into her face which she puffs air at, trying to get them out of her eyes without using her hands and ruining her still drying nails. A collarbone that was made to be kissed and oh. A pair of shorts he really should have been privy to before now, an obscenely small amount of fabric that only succeeds in covering a quarter of what it should, leaving the tight muscles of her legs naked to his eye.) Notices so much he has to loosen his tie with shaky fingers, clears his throat too loudly before managing to use his legs to walk towards her as she stands.
She's looking at him odd, and no, she's looking at him like he's acting odd and he probably is. Tries to gain control by reaching out, tugging at the hem of the shirt, saying of course she can wear it, she looks better in it then he ever did anyhow. Loses control when his hand doesn't return to his side, but sticks around, makes a home flat against her hip.
Her breath hitches when his thumb explores the terrain, moving up and down against the cotton pressed to her skin and wow. It's a bit addicting, seeing her react to his touch like that. Wants to do it again, thinks about where else he could put his hands and what kind of sounds she'd make to each corresponding caress.
He watches her emotions play over her eyes like scenes on a movie screen. Counts how many times she blinks before she settles on one feeling. One; she's curious and grinning, thinks this is their usual teasing and innocent fun he's playing at. Two; she's wondering why he hasn't moved his hand yet. Three; she looks down at the floor between them, counting the inches that separate their bodies and settles on feeling nervously excited.
But she's still unsure, he can tell that much when she looks up at him with big eyes behind bigger lashes, teeth biting her lip in such a delicious fashion he decides he must nibble at the tender flesh himself sometime. Soon. He's still thinking of this when she reaches up to tug at his own collar, voice shaky when she says she believes him to always choose the perfect shirt to go with his suits, knuckles a light warmth and a seductive brush against his neck.
He stiffens, in every way, jaw tightening and spine running with shivers and he has to close his eyes, wondering when he developed a secret urge for her hands to come into contact with his neck. An urge so secret he didn't even know about it until now. And he enjoys the touch of her hand, (her hand, he thinks), breathes evenly until the pad of her thumb runs the bump of his Adam's apple and his eyes snap open, dark as ever and causing any bit of doubt she had left to leave her from her lungs as she lets out a deep breath.
Eyes open and he sees Rose, messy haired and as naked as he'd ever seen her, in more than one way, and he's done for. Notices the lack of buttoned buttons on his shirt again, and reaches up with the hand that isn't still gripping, rubbing her hip and pushes the collar aside to make room for his mouth.
His kiss, (his kiss, she thinks), lands underneath her collarbone and he lets his lips linger on her skin as he mumbles something about how she should wear his clothes more often, feeling her heart beneath in her rib cage and counting how many beats it takes her to speak or move.
One; she gasps hot on his ear and it sends shock waves not shivers down his spine, two; neither of them move and the already timeless shell of his ship ceases to exist at all, seconds turning into years turning into hours. Three; her hand moves along the side of his neck to cup her hand around it, tangling her fingers in the short, soft hair she finds there.
Four; his resistance has snapped like a stretched rubber band and he grips her at the waist, forcing her against the bureau behind her and cutting her off mid-breath with his mouth. He inhales the rest of her exhale while their tongues meet, a tender slide of flesh and heat. He feels the warmth of her inner thigh, (her thigh, he thinks) grazing his hip and helps her wrap her leg around him with a slide of his hand from her hip to her foot. She makes a breathy moan sound, lips pulling from his, and he bites at her jawline and files the reaction away to study later while she learns the length of his body pressed to hers.
Bits of him are left smeared with red varnish, still wet on her nails as she ran her hands across the curves and lines of him. His shirt is torn, a white puddle of fabric on the floor, and he smiles fondly at it from her bed where she sleeps limbs tangled with his, bodies braided together like rope. He strokes his fingertips along the dips of her back and counts her heartbeats until she rises.