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Brown Derby Jump

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"Charles, we're going to be late," Raven protests, as Charles looks at himself in the mirror. He's got everything done but his cufflinks; his hair isn't doing exactly what he wants it to do, but he has no doubt that it'll just get knocked loose ten minutes into the first number, so it's hardly worth worrying about.

"It's a nightclub, darling," he tells her, from behind the closed bathroom door. "They're not going to count us off for being tardy." He can hear her sigh in annoyance; he almost wants to make her wait a little longer, just out of sheer mischief, but he opens the door, walking into the bedroom.

Or rather, he tries to walk into the bedroom, but he's stopped in his tracks by the sight of her. The dress is a new one, nearly the color of her natural skin, and it flairs out just so, accentuating her legs. Her hair is immaculate as usual, done up in a series of complicated rolls on the top of her head, and she couldn't look more perfect if she tried- and when one is speaking of her, that is a very serious statement.

"Do you like it?" she asks.

He sits down on the edge of the bed. "I don't know how I could not."

"Good," she says; she reaches for his hand, tugging at him. "Now come on, it's past time."

He manages to pull her in instead, into the gap between his legs. "Are you sure you want to go out?" he says, putting his hands on his hips, sliding them up her sides. "We can certainly stay in."

"You insisted on it fifteen minutes ago," she reminds him. "Raven, love," she says, slipping into a perfect imitation of his voice, "you never want to go dancing anymore. Can't we go tonight, please? For me?"

"Yes, well," Charles says, waving a hand at her. "That was before I saw you." His hands are still roaming her body, and when he takes her breasts into his hands, squeezing gently, she gasps. "Don't you think we can be a tiny bit late?" he coaxes. "Please?"

Raven bites her lip, looking down at him. "The hell with it," she says, pushing him back onto the bed and crawling on top of him. "It's got to be quick, and don't touch my hair."

"Your hair looks stunning, as always," Charles tells her, "but I have to confess that I have no interest in it at all right now." He leans up, kissing her. "Besides, your hair took a matter of seconds."

"Yeah, but I don't know if I can think it up again." She hikes her skirt up, tossing it out so it's not in the way anymore, and Charles catches a brief, lovely glimpse of her garters, the black straps looking so sinful against her pale skin.

He reaches between them, unzipping his fly, and Raven doesn't hesitate; she doesn't even wait for him to push his trousers down, just slips her hand into them and works his cock free, stroking it quickly, making him groan. He's waiting for her to take her underwear off, but she just moves them to the side, lowering herself onto his cock. "Raven," he groans, feeling a little scandalized.

"I said quick," she points out, her voice strained.

"Let's make the most of it," he says, thrusting up into her. She's gloriously wet, so hot around him, and when she starts moving it's so much better, the way her body grips him just so.

She rides him hard, like she can't control herself at all, and Charles fights through all the fabric separating them, reaching in to find her clit, rubbing it through the fabric of her panties, urging her along. She gasps, biting her lip as if to keep it in, and it just makes Charles want to do more, makes him want to wreck her so thoroughly that she can't hold back.

He's getting there; her mouth falls open, and beautiful, inarticulate things fall from it, noises that are better than words, more primal, much more satisfying. "Charles," she gasps, somewhere in the middle of it, almost unintelligible.

He nods frantically. "Yes, darling, come on, please, I want you to-"

She throws her head back, moaning loudly, and the feeling as she comes around him is absolutely remarkable, like nothing else, better than anything else; Charles doesn't manage much longer, not when she's given him that.

Despite her haste, Raven's quite slow to disentangle herself, standing shakily and offering him a hand up. He takes it, and he very nearly overbalances and sends them both to the floor, but somehow they manage. He leans in to give her a kiss, slow and long, and she smiles when he pulls away, squeezing his hand.

She goes over to the vanity, checking her attire in the mirror; it's really fascinating to watch her level of control, the way she can make individual tresses of her hair move back into position, brighten the color of her lips, even adjust her eyelashes just so.

He steps up beside her, taking a look at himself, and he makes an unhappy noise. "I should have thought about my hair."

"Leave it," she says. "It suits you."

He frowns at her in the mirror. "I'm not sure what it says me, that you think I look better with the sort of hairstyle that comes from being unexpectedly ravished."

She holds up her hands. "I'm not making any judgments." She picks up her purse. "Are we ready?"

He hooks his arm into hers. "I think the real question, darling, is whether they're ready for us."