Might As Well Try George was glad it was still winter, and the darkness could maintain the illusion

Might As Well Try George was glad it was still winter, and the darkness could maintain the illusion that the night wasn’t already on its last legs. They stumbled in through the door at 5am, completely exhausted, but it was still dark enough that they could fool themselves, engage in a little shared denial, that things could still be done.  Of course, being more than a little drunk helped. Penny stumbled before he did, collapsed onto the floor giggling, and he just followed her down, until they were laughing and kissing and fondling one another with malcoordinated ease.  “Think I’ll just sleep.” She muttered, closing her eyes and smiling to herself, one hand slipping over her face, as the other lost fingertips among her hair.  That suited George just fine, although he wasn’t quite ready to close his eyes just yet. Instead he slid down the side of her, fingers leading the whole way, until he lightly unbuttoned her jeans, pulled down the zipper. She lifted her bottom off the floor, keeping her eyes closed the whole time, and he smiled.  “Enjoying yourself?” He couldn’t tell if the words were slurred, tumbling into one another, because she was still drunk or just sleepy enough that moving tongue and jaw in the correct order was just too much effort. Either way he pressed his lips to her exposed underwear, breathing in the scent of the lace.  “Sleepy sleeeeeep.” Penny cooed out, but she was already wriggling, a kind of odd shuffle that was halfway between helping him undress her and just a reaction to the attention of his mouth against her covered sex. He was going to draw this out, because he didn’t have the energy to rush.  Lace in his teeth. Down. Fingers to help, nails sliding against the softness of her flesh, scoring lines that faded as soon as they were drawn. The scent of her, the taste, right there, up against his lips, and his tongue. She moaned, and he grinned, finding the right fold, the one that made her gasp, and pressing the tip of his tongue there.  She started to say something, the first syllable of it just about escaping her lips (it was a ‘th’ or 'ph’ sound, perhaps), before it just died there, falling away into nothing but a pleased groan, accompanied with the appropriate rolling of the hips, sliding of the hands against the floor, and arching of the back.  Muscle memory was carrying him through, knowing how the pieces of her fit together, which to push and which to press, and to tell the truth he was enjoying the lazy pace of this, and her lazy responses. There was a pleasure in tiredness, in the soreness of muscles and the struggle against sleep. When each eyelid felt like it was fighting a losing battle, and yet still here he was struggling on.  Penny whispered something, but he didn’t hear it. Then he felt her hand in his hair, fingertips turning into a fist and pushing back, tilting his head up so that he would look at her. She was staring at him, her eyes open only the slightest amount, but staring at him still. She pulled him up towards her, tasted herself on his lips.  “Sleep.” She muttered against him, and he smiled, rolling off her and onto his back, so that she could lay her head against his chest.  “Sleep.” He agreed, and finally closed his eyes. -- source link

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