Could be more of one. [Vocal cords tight and strained as she works to get the words out where the webbing of his thumb's pressed down across her collar. This time she doesn't hesitate to grin. Doesn't miss the reflected glimpse of crimson in the mirror-polished windows angled high overhead. The hand at his neck stays wound in cloth, the other--
Nisha slips her nails in under the hem of his waiscoat, down along the curve of his stomach till they find skin.]
no subject
Nisha slips her nails in under the hem of his waiscoat, down along the curve of his stomach till they find skin.]