[ her fantasies are between her and the sheets of her bed thanks

her arm, her wrist, are small in his grasp; this is a fact she doesn't seem to tire of, nor of how much she likes her hands (tired, soft but with points of wear incomparable to those with rougher lives) being kissed and held, and each light brush sears her better than any brand. her heart remains battering in her chest, longing to be kissed elsewhere all the same, and she curls her fingers slightly in offering.

but she ought to respond, his color flourishing down her shoulders. ]

No, that's a... a fine start, Vergilius. They've been aching from all the writing I've had to do lately, no matter how often I stretch.