[He’s Herlock Sholmes. Of course he does. He notes the effort of her thighs squeezing together, that note in her voice, the way her nightgown droops just enough for him to peer… at her clavicle. Lower, the way the fabric frames the fullness of her chest.]
Is that what you want?
[The words spill out slowly despite the tempo in his own chest.]
no subject
Is that what you want?
[The words spill out slowly despite the tempo in his own chest.]
Just to smoke?