Yes! And what might be inferred from a man who's died from a kick to the head from a horse, who wields in his hand a precision instrument like a knife? Meant only to make the most delicate of cuts...? Or perhaps you'd appreciate more context?
[ she tosses her head back onto the chaise, hands taut in his hair. after a moment she remembers her tail and tightens it into a slow, corkscrewing pull. ]
Imagine that amount of money one might win, knowing that a racehorse as famous as Silver Blaze is about to take to the track, and being able to bet with certainty on his loss.
[Holds up a finger! He will happily lead her imagination to and fro.]
And! Couple that with the knowledge that there have been sheep found, somewhat nearby, that have suddenly gone lame according to those tasked with watching them. What might you infer from all of that?
Well, he hears that as a challenge. And Sholmes, imbued with as much stubbornness as the drug will allow to cut through his otherwise useless senses, feels the critical need to rise to it.
Which works in her favor, of course.
He never was shy, but now he's all the more bold in how he chooses to taste her. Her folds will part for his tongue as he drags it up and purposefully between them, utterly obscene in the way he collects her taste. He will do that few more times before its tip rises and circles slowly, then quickly, around her clit.]
her breath hitches hard once or twice, Sprezzatura holding back her moans out of her own stubbornness, then again, until she sounds like a woman submerged in ice. gasps and little subvocalizations low in her throat. everything he licks is velvety soft.
and oh, her poor, loved clit. it seems to strain beneath his tongue, grow wet under his attention. stomach muscles are fluttering. her knees pull up higher towards her shoulders. ]
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