He wasn't expecting it to be this intense. But then, Annie's intense, and the natural disaster of lust that's walloped him is . . . intense. So, keyword here, intense.
Intense, in that he's on his back on his bed and Annie's torso seems really tiny now that his hands are wrapping around it and his thumbs are brushing over the firm tips of her soft breasts through her shirt.
He somehow, someway, (some strange and alien way, because this is a thing he usually keeps very close tabs on) missed it when her skirt disappeared but she's straddling his hips in just her underwear and moving in ways he can tell are blindly instinctual and not learned from experience.
Even more confounding is that his jeans are still on, but the sharp exhalations tickling his ear tell him the situation is working for her so he just slides his hands down to where the very tops of her pale smooth thighs bend into her hips and holds on. Her teeth scrape his neck and the breath in her throat turns into moan-sounds when he grips her a little harder and encourages her rhythm against him.
He decides she's about to literally kill him by diverting all the blood away from his brain slash vital organs (well, one seems incredibly vital at the moment, and it's not his liver, kids) and in addition to that he decides that he sincerely doesn't care as long as he gets to watch her ride it out crushed on top of him.
She leans up a little, flips her hair out of her face and stares into his eyes for a second (and she just looks . . . dazed and almost questioning, all dark glazed eyes and bruised pink mouth) before she's crashing back down to kiss him and ends up sending a breathy shriek over his tongue as she comes.
He's breathing just as hard as she is when she lies there collapsed on his chest with her forehead shored up under his chin. He feels the heat rolling off of her with his arms wrapped over her back and the slightest vibration from her legs still unclenching around his hips. He runs his hands up and down her back.
He feels like he needs to soothe her to soothe himself that he hasn't just infiltrated and blackened her spirit or something. This is actually somehow way dirtier than any scenario he’s imagined with her thus far; Annie Edison has out-raunched Jeff Winger. He’s not remotely sure what to do with himself at the moment.
It's intimidating, seeing her so . . . raw. Present and open. It's a different kind of intensity from her usual; the shrill, tense girl on the emotional high wire, marching around Greendale into battle with the American educational grading system.
(What Jeff converts in his brain as uneasiness on her behalf at the awkwardness that could ensue after this insane night quickly rights itself into its real form: Jeff is fucking terrified that something he didn't mean to let happen could boil over into one of those horrible experiences all women seem to have that become a massive piece of baggage to carry around forever after. He's never understood how that happens, just that it does sometimes, and when it does, it's kind of soul-sucking to observe from the outside. This is why he avoids that whole emotional phantasmagoria to begin with. He doesn't do that level of responsibility.)
Annie stirs, slips off of him and stretches her perfect legs out with a groan. Jeff lays his hands flat on his stomach and turns his head to the side to look at her. She rolls on her side and finally looks at him, her eyes darker and brighter at the same time.
He realizes he's holding his breath only when he lets it out as her lips curve up in a heavy smile.
He leans in and kisses her slowly, because any dumb thing he can drag from his slushy brain to say seems like an insult after that, and when she shivers he wraps an arm around her back again and pulls her closer.
Closer, until she's slipping under him and he's settling his hips carefully between her thighs again.
It had still been dusky when they'd fairly dove onto his bed,
(What had she even been doing there in his apartment? Something about a book, or a worksheet or something else that didn't matter once she stood so close to him that he could smell something perfume-y and singularly arousing on her wrist when she'd picked a piece of something fuzzy from his hair. It really, really, extra doesn't matter at this point, does it? Alright, that’s settled.)
and the gray light had quickly melted away until it was all black outside the window now. From somewhere half the moon lays a dull beam over the bed but it does nothing to help him see her.
All he can do is kiss her, touch her, and listen to her cues. Finally they peel his shirt off and then her little hands are running all over his arms, his shoulders, his chest, and she takes some cues of her own. Her hips roll up against him and it's like she was paying attention the whole time before to every twitch and grunt from him and she's decided to remind him that only one of them has had an orgasm thus far.
It's really going to happen, he's reminded foggily by what's left of his brain cells.
"Annie," he says. It comes out hoarse and low. She "mm"'s back questioningly, but it doesn't really sound like she cares.
"Um," he starts, but then her hands are on his jaw and she stills underneath him.
"Jeff," she murmurs, "yes."
And he feels that goddamn syllable everywhere, and where does her voice get off trifling with his nerve endings like that?
He thinks he asks "yeah?" back again, but maybe it's just a kind of guttural breathy groan falling out of his mouth when her fingers slide up into his hair.
Jeff kisses her, rough and deep, and she meets him bite for lick. They're not supposed to be like this, or they weren't anyway, that one last brain cell mutters dejectedly.
It doesn't really matter. The words they pick tonight won't really be remembered; just the experience, and (god, what has she done to him?) the feelings: intense.