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The memory blossoms and solidifies with the anchor of her words to evoke it, on knees that felt so different from his own, legs shaped entirely wrong (right for what he was.) As difficult as rational thought is with need so front and center, he finds appeal in the idea of a proper bed, to show that he can at times not be an improper savage about it all.

"Yes." A final kiss to seal the deal, then he climbs to his feet. He doesn't have to think about it, bending to scoop her up in his arms. It's a playful callback to the deadly seriousness of that night, when he would likely not have taken no for an answer. He's strong, but human. Her weight in his arms is as it should be with a gather and rustle of her dress.

"If the stairwell is narrow, I'll reluctantly relent." He flashes a smile and turns with her. "Direct me?"

She's carefully plucked up into his arms as though she weighs absolutely nothing at all, the sudden shift in her internal axis prompting a somewhat breathless laugh as he draws her in, and though she knows she isn't required to twine her arms around his neck to hold onto him further she does so anyway, the hem of her dress swaying with the movement to spill back down over her legs in a soft rustling of the fabric.

"Then fortunately for both of us, it is very grand indeed." And certainly wide enough to permit his continued carry of her; the house itself may a bit extravagant for her tastes, certainly suited to Dorian's aesthetic more than hers, but her quarters are thoroughly, unmistakably her own, and once they've ascended up the stairs to the second story she gestures to the correct door with a small wave of her fingers, granting him the unspoken permission to enter the room with its dark, subtly gilded wallpaper and heavy curtains she often pulls to block out the sunlight.

They haven't been drawn yet, and brightness spills in now, casting inviting rays on the made bed before them, which she suspects he'll deposit her on — though she won't be set down without tilting up to catch his mouth again with her own, an invitation to linger nearer to her as she curves her fingers into his shoulders with the attempt to draw his body over hers as she stretches out across the mattress.

He can't deny the appeal of the ascent, going where pointed, something light to it all that has him feeling younger than his years and anticipatory. Bedchambers are often so revealing. Hers comes as no surprise somehow, the contrasts of darks and lights, the properly made bed.

She has no trouble whatsoever coaxing him down in the kiss and further. He uses both arms beneath hers to push her further up the mattress and stretch her onto it lengthwise instead of sideways. Coming up onto a knee and shoving with his remaining foot on the ground, he makes his way up there, too, weight heavy upon her in a pin of dress skirt, but propped on a hand and an elbow to keep from crushing her down entirely.

The kiss doesn't go unbroken through the entire affair. Always he comes back to it, and then putting more weight on his elbow, he frees his hand to cup her cheek and trail lower down her throat. It feels debauched to be making out almost fully clothed on a bed in the middle of the day, more so than if they had removed everything first.

He slips his hand lower over her bodice and traces curves through fabric. Buttons feel like smooth, small pebbles against his fingertips. He can't resist the urge to undo just a few and dip his hand into the gap to find the next layer, skin warmed and crisp.

It is an indulgence, a midday moment stolen when she does not often have the opportunity to embrace this kind of spontaneity, and it does feel rather like they are getting away with something, sparing their time for this while the rest of the city goes about their normal business.

He's a welcome weight on her, even in his heaviness, and his hands on her are gentle, mapping, like he intends to learn every place on her that might have been inadvertently neglected during their last encounter — though he'd been a different shape then too, his great size preventing him from attempting these warm, purposeful touches, and now she arches beneath the descent of his fingers as they find their way along the delicate fastenings of her dress.

When his hand slips beneath the unfastened neckline, she hums against his mouth at the sensation, perhaps even tilts herself up in invitation for the swell of her breast to fit into his palm, and she breaks the kiss inevitably with the need to breathe, soft pants as she tilts her chin back to expose the line running down the column of her throat.

His shirt proves to be a bit easier for her to lift, her own slender fingers running along the nape of his neck and then dipping beneath the collar to knead against the firmness of his shoulders, seeking more of that warmth.

There's no resisting the invitation. He trails slow kisses up the center of her throat, from the hollow to lip over the jut of her chin. A gentle squeeze of hand, a slip of thick fingers over thin fabric rewards her offering to him in her arch.

He works more buttons free, a side lean onto his elbow giving him the access. Now he can push his hand deeper, a caress of ribs, a shove beneath her back to lift her to him with a brace between her shoulder blades. The house is quiet, emphasizing the more intimate sounds of skin on cloth, quickening breath, hers and his.

He rolls his shoulder beneath her hand. This, too, feels different, no pelt, no twitching skin, her touch firmer and more substantial to him now. He shifts to get his other hand beneath her head, encourage her back to his mouth for a much deeper kiss. His hips move against her in a few needy rocks, want growing but not yet to the tipping point of desperate hands or full ache for skin to skin. He's very much relishing the build.

Undressing is always a more deliberate process for her, great care usually taken with all of the small fastenings that typically adorn her wardrobe — although she has sacrificed several pairs of undergarments to more impatient hands, grips that are strong enough to rend the fabric from her body altogether and leave her bare for the taking, for her to claim in turn.

This, to her surprise and delight, builds the anticipation as much as it does increase her desire for him in this form; he's still firm against her, but the slide of his skin against her own, the places where his hands cup the back of her head and cradle between her shoulders as he guides her up to him, leave her free to wind her own arms around him until she starts to become too needy to feel more of him against her.

She does have to extricate herself from him somewhat, the sleeves of her dress already slipping down from her shoulders with the bodice unbuttoned, in order to encourage the removal of his shirt, finding the hem with her fingers and rolling it up halfway in silent request. Some of it is for the pleasure of her eyes as well as her hands; she wants to see the intricacies of his true form, although they're already mimicking an earlier action with him slotted between the spread of her thighs, hips shifting into her own until she moans lightly.

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