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[temporicide]

[ Whatever finishing school she shoved herself through as a younger pretty thing has not remediated a natural tendency to need like a stray animal, composure a little undone by affection where given. This proclivity isn't only emotional; some unusual physical sensitivity coats the network of her nerves. Consequently her breathing fast becomes a sound-tangled huff with the change in friction, lids of her eyes lowering. Unsteady, and not especially shy about showing it. The kiss is sweeter for its near-chastity, context excluded; with it, pressure makes her want to rise up against him and get greedy. Her mouth is slightly open, the pink-red valentine of her tongue visible at the back of her bottom teeth, right where they get sharp.

Roza's expression transmits her easy receptiveness during the exploratory course of his hand. Like a flower face opening when its season comes calling, this welcoming comes naturally; she would ask him touch her, she thinks, any way he wants. But she doesn't need to say it out loud; the upward flex of her pelvis is its own language. ]

Wouldn't you know it —

[ Her own arm comes coasting up to drag the edges of her nails gentle across the side of his hand, down to wrist, in twirly little patterns that will fade in seconds, sandcastle-brief, etched in white across skin. More sensation-building than real scratch. (As far as she's concerned, this is the primary reason for a good manicure.) ]

Same page. But you might need to gag me. [ This is itself a dare, be it via the tearable lace of her tights or her equally flimsy underwear or just the warm flat of his hand. ] I like to talk too much, you know.

[ And because some hedonistic suffering is good for the soul, and he's in jeans, which aren't always so forgiving: ]

See if I can't make you ache a little, too.