She did not answer. She only stayed where she was, bent over the table with her skirt bunched at her waist and her cheeks held apart in the lamplight, and he could see how badly she wanted him to say more.
The small tremor in her thighs had turned into a steady shiver. Her breath came in short, uneven pulls. She was waiting for a sound, a touch, a laugh, anything.
Her ears burned. The plug twitched with her nerves, and the gem winked at him again.
"How is it?" she asked at last, in a thread of a voice. "Does it look okay?"
Lor leaned forward.
The heat of her reached his face before anything else did, and the faint, sweet, musky smell of her, jasmine over something warmer.
"It looks good on you," he said. Then, because that was nowhere near enough, "Really good."
"Good?"
"Good," he said again, and his voice cracked in the middle of it.
