He settles in on the brace of his elbow beside her to follow scarring laid bare between them -- curious, still, about the ferocity of it, that flicked hand swept to flip the edge of her robe well aside. The bite of the wine on his breath tamps down as he coils back a shade to gauge the pattern -- the scope. The hand he already has there traces (carefully) along raised edges.
Hm.
Upon second pass, his fingertips stir a lazier loop across the more sensitive territory outside of scarring’s roots, where the skin is too supple to shine.
“Are they still alive?”
Just curious, the hood of his brow comfortably arch when it returns to her, and he follows that leading thumb through to draw down it lightly between her legs. He's following the natural contour, you see.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2021-08-11 09:20 am (UTC)Hm.
Upon second pass, his fingertips stir a lazier loop across the more sensitive territory outside of scarring’s roots, where the skin is too supple to shine.
“Are they still alive?”
Just curious, the hood of his brow comfortably arch when it returns to her, and he follows that leading thumb through to draw down it lightly between her legs. He's following the natural contour, you see.