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When he released her lips to shift his attention to the long expanse of her slender neck, she hummed in pleasure - but backed away, running her hands down his chest softly before reaching for the top button of his doublet. He froze, his hands on her hips clenched, and she paused briefly before popping open the next button, and then the next. He stayed still, rapid breaths escaping from his lips until it was time to shrug out of the doublet entirely. He tossed it aside, and after a brief moment of hesitation, pulled his tunic over his head to join the doublet on the ground.
She reached for him before the fabric had left his fingers, her cold hands pressing against the warm skin on his shoulders. She could feel him shudder as she explored his chest: the small patch of sparse hair covering thick bands of muscle, the scars scattered across his skin like confetti. She edged closer, until she could press a kiss directly over his heart.
And then she was in his arms again, one of his hands tilting her chin up so he could kiss her deeply, the other around her waist holding her close. She continued tracing her fingers over his skin, from his chest to his shoulders, his ribs to his back, until he gasped and pulled away laughing.
"Don't tickle!" he chuckled, and then, as if imagining the enormous grin that spread across her face in the darkened tent, he moved, quick as a snake, to pin her arms against her sides. "I said don't," he whispered, his tone trying for low and dangerous but the laughter in his voice made her giggle.
"I apologise, m'lord," she teased. "I'm a naughty girl. What will it be: whips, or the rack?"
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