She presses back against his hand, letting slip a quiet cry, high and tight with arousal. Another kiss, messy and uncoordinated, and she's moving in time with him, matching the rhythm he's marking out with both hips and hand.

'You dress right,' she breathes, following the line of that curve with delicate fingertips, stroke and return, stroke and return. 'And I'd wager, you wear briefs more often than not.' The words are murmured against his jaw, and even though her voice is honey dark, the hand that is not occupied is gripping his shirt so tightly, her knuckles have gone white.