The chair isn't big enough. Small and slight as she is, with only her thigh rolling in between his legs on the corner of it (smooth wood biting into the bone of her knee where the plush leather cushion stops) Cutter's mass-- stuck somewhere between rejecting the idea and bleeding right into it-- takes up the rest.

If she hadn't already tucked the dart in against her palm, if he was drugged and bucking up against skin through cloth, she'd pull him out of it without hesitation. But hesitation here risks snapping a fragile line, and Frazer shelves the idea. Works her thumb into the soft flesh beside his vocal cords like she means to hurt him (she does) before it traces vulnerable contours down into the shadow of his collarbone. Before passing his chest and the fabric covering it to rest squarely across the seam of his waistband.

And from there it's all abrupt: the kiss is abandoned-- her hold on him is abandoned-- cold tile against bare skin as she sinks down into what space she forces with her palms braced on the inside of each of his thighs, mouthing off hot across seams.

Across him.