[ Erik's stutter-stop, that moment of disengagement, is timed so well with Kate's own hands. When he presses a thumb at her clit (Johanna's, Johanna's, it is not really that hard to remember but it is getting just that little bit harder) Kate moans with her, the thrum of it in her throat and chest, the sudden overlay of pleasure mingling, so identical it's hard to say what is one of them and what is the other.
Kate has stopped talking, half out of distraction, half because if she is going to claim to be the best, the one who knows better what Johanna wants, she knows to shut up for a while before she's pressed her luck and gets told again. But she's not about to let Johanna forget she's there just because she's not speaking. It almost comes naturally, the assertion of her presence into Johanna's mind, almost like she's leaning against her, head on her shoulder, breathing in her ear. That's how Kate's imagining it, focused enough to sort of project it.
It helps that that's not all. Her hands slide down thighs, hook in and then up. One returns to her breast but the other remains, and she spreads two fingers in a vee and strokes around where Erik would be, if this were real for her, touch featherlight where she would be-- where Johanna is-- pulled taut around the thick of him. But there's nothing there for her, not really, however much she feels it, and Kate wonders--.
She's never been good at resisting curiosity. One finger dips in, and Johanna will feel it not just between her legs but on her own fingers, wet collecting on the tips where they're still clutched dry at Erik's forearm, then slick and hot to the first knuckle as Kate pushes two in, once and then again and curls them up toward her belly until she makes her own breath catch in a groan. ]
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Kate has stopped talking, half out of distraction, half because if she is going to claim to be the best, the one who knows better what Johanna wants, she knows to shut up for a while before she's pressed her luck and gets told again. But she's not about to let Johanna forget she's there just because she's not speaking. It almost comes naturally, the assertion of her presence into Johanna's mind, almost like she's leaning against her, head on her shoulder, breathing in her ear. That's how Kate's imagining it, focused enough to sort of project it.
It helps that that's not all. Her hands slide down thighs, hook in and then up. One returns to her breast but the other remains, and she spreads two fingers in a vee and strokes around where Erik would be, if this were real for her, touch featherlight where she would be-- where Johanna is-- pulled taut around the thick of him. But there's nothing there for her, not really, however much she feels it, and Kate wonders--.
She's never been good at resisting curiosity. One finger dips in, and Johanna will feel it not just between her legs but on her own fingers, wet collecting on the tips where they're still clutched dry at Erik's forearm, then slick and hot to the first knuckle as Kate pushes two in, once and then again and curls them up toward her belly until she makes her own breath catch in a groan. ]