transgressings | inbox for duplicity;

[Spurred he is, even if her plea rings deeper than it should've. Reaches the tightness of his fingers around the flesh of her thighs, making his mouth stop against her pulse in return. At the back of his mind he's giving himself a pat on the back; if it had been the other way around it would have been dangerous. Fighter's hands, the first to react, trigger fingers inhumanely quick.

But still, he hums, lets the flat of his tongue press against the skin, opening his mouth and letting teeth brush again with the motion before he locks them there for half a second before he replaces them with his lips in a very indulgent suckle.

He moves his mouth a little lower does it a second time, and then upwards for a third, tighter and a little harsher each time, just to measure her reaction.] Here... here... or here?

[ She's rising heat against him now, over him, the wanderings of his mouth conjuring those telltale signs of her arousal that she can't hope to hide the longer she's exposed by his gaze — the flush of color in her cheeks, on her chest leading into her décolletage and beneath that neckline, the sudden tightness of her nipples into twin points, straining forward against the fabric of her gown as she whimpers in spite of herself.

Each instance of lips and teeth and lips again prompts another sound from her, the harder clutch of her fingers on the strength of him beneath her, and it's likely he can feel the heat of it in her thighs too, the ascending warmth beneath his palms.

She tilts her face towards his, lips slightly parted, gaze dark, her lips docked at the edge of his mouth. ] Equally perfect.

[The sigh he releases is pleased and aching all at once. The sounds she's making are difficult to hear beneath his own pulse ringing in his ears, but he's finding them feeding into whatever messed up blend that put him in this state - yet again.

One of his hands slips out of the heat under her skirt to cup at the side of her neck, thumb pressing hard along her jaw, but the other finds the curve of her backside and pulls her against him.

His legs move apart just enough to brace his feet on the floor, boots scraping on the floor, a motion to divert himself from rolling his hips up against her weight and to brace himself for the likely moment that control will stretch to its limit. For the moment, he merely lets himself be guided back into her mouth again, wanting to eat that breath in between her lips for himself. He finds himself wanting the air she breathes, the heat she carries and the friction she creates, not just on him but within his core.]

[ His touch slides over her, fingers guiding beneath the curtain of her hair, palm resting beneath the curve of her jawline, while his other pulls her close with a clutching against her rear; the sheer size of his hands on her skin leave her with the impression that he's nearly touching her everywhere at once, leaving her torn between which direction to incline towards.

Their mouths find one another again and this time she kisses him like she means to drown in it, lips parted for her tongue to sweep past that firm seam and swirl along his, licking deeply; it conjures a moan from her that ends up stifled between them, and she idly rocks forward in her perch on his lap.

It only occurs to her then to remove her coat, but she won't sacrifice the kiss to do it, movements hasty and haphazard as she strips the garment from her shoulders, down the length of her arms until it hits the floor with a heavy sound of the fabric. ]

[He's not sure if it's her taste, the bite of alcohol in her breath lapping at the roof of his mouth or the sound she pours into it that creates something close to a riple effect. It starts from his own vocal chords, thrumming a drawn-out hum in return. It hits against her, the motion of his hips unable to stop from meeting her subtle rocking. It reaches to painful, the strain in the front of his trousers, but this is a man who can deal with a large sword thrust through his chest and walk without much of a care. This ache, he enjoyed. It felt viscerous, born from the effect of whatever hit him and a little bit raw, bred from something that has made him give an actual damn about her. It streams to both his hands, the one kneading the flesh under his fingers, the other rubbing and stroking at the firm curve of her neck. To the roll of his tongue, raking against the edge of her teeth as if taunting her to bite him instead.

He hears the rustle of cloth in what seems to him a far distance. And only because he's wondering why she stopped carding her hand through his hair - something he hadn't realized he enjoyed a bit much until it was gone. His eyes open then, having them closed as he kissed back, and all his brain registers is a hiss of a yes. He's seen her naked; hell, felt her fully against him, inside and out, but it still awakens something in him when he's aware that she's doing this out of her own volition this time.

Dante isn't wearing his trademark leather coat, it's draped at the end of the couch they're in, unable to leave it very far, nor the guns strapped to the holsters in its seams. (The sword? That's actually propped against the wall looking more like a stage prop than anything else).

He moves the hand on her neck to the collar of his shirt, unfastening a couple of buttons - but it's difficult, to keep that up, when she's like this and he wants to guide her head just so, to kiss her deeper, so it's short-lived. He smiles through the kiss as he brings it back to stroke her cheek.]

[ She knows the requirements, those rules of existing here that they're intended to follow, meant to obey — and every part of her chafes under that yoke, never desiring to be a slave again, never wanting to be forced into compliance. This, she thinks, is her way of having it on her own terms, making it her own choice; she kisses him because she wants to and not because of some chemical sweeping through her bloodstream, removing all higher thought in favor of sheer id.

The pace of this is different, a more purposeful tempo rather than anything hurtling them forward, propelling them into something purely primal and animalistic, that ungentle fucking that had left her skin marked by badges of their need, bruises and scratch marks from where they'd consummated on the uncovered ground like feral animals.

That's not to say she hadn't enjoyed it, or that she'd be opposed to him marking her similarly now, but it adopts a different meaning when he touches her, a gentle hand sweeping over the curve of her cheek.

She resumes where he's left off on the buttons of his shirt, fingers deftly and quickly making work of opening them to expose more skin for her gaze, her hands; the latter smooth over all that newly revealed expanse as soon as the open sides of his shirt part, and then it's her turn to dissolve the kiss to his mouth in favor of pressing her lips lower, further, moving over the broadest part of him with a soft sigh in the back of her throat. ]

[Finding himself releasing a breath he had been holding when Vanessa pulls back, trailing her lips on the exposed skin of his chest, Dante also wonders at how he can't really feel any temperature shift there. He had been leaning in, into her, on his seat on the couch, eager and intent and just a little wayward, driven by the warmth of her, the thickness of the air that seemed to lather her like a second skin.

He leans back, then, on his seat on the couch. Wraps a strong arm around her waist to tell her that she's good there while giving her a better position to explore. Because for all the drunken, wanton state he's in, he reckons that Vanessa probably needs this as much as he does - even if it's just a distant shout of "screw you" into the system, a reprisal of what they had been made to do, as if a taunt about their chemistry in their previous encounter.

And man, if the sight enough of her tilting her head, dark eyelashes fanned over her cheeks while her breath ghosted over his skin, isn't enough to make him groan and tilt his head back with lips parted, then it's the zing her mouth leaves there.

He runs his tongue over his teeth, feeling them sharp, and he closes his eyes so that a possible glare of red dies down. He has half a mind to wonder if a short flare of his trigger would subdue this induced state so he could also claim doing this is out of his own volition alone. But for all the otherworldly things she's seen, he doesn't want to scare her now. Not when things are getting this interesting.

Still, that half a mind has a mind of its own, willing to break free every now and then. He snarls subtly, fingertips slipping under the hem of the undergarments she's wearing as he guides her hips into the rolls of his own languidly once again. But when he leans his head into her ear with a light nip to the shell, he manages to hide a spectral tone behind his chuckle, and that's a blessing.]

Off. Before I tear these.

[ He stretches out beneath her mouth, and she can't entirely pinpoint the source of the surge she experiences deep within her at the sight of him like that, large and sprawling and all hers for the moment, but she fully intends on seizing advantage of the opportunity for as long as she's able. She's forced to shift her hips away from his to lean further, to enable her lips' descent across all that uncovered flesh, but it's well worth the reward of tasting his skin instead.

She's mindful initially, lavishing her attentions in the form of slow, open presses of her mouth, those gentle purses that allow him to feel the entire shape of her kisses, taking a moment to truly appreciate him where there had been none before. The desire is there — some shade of it had been before, as well, even with the intoxicants surging through her blood — but the knowledge that there is nothing spurring her on now save the familiar warmth of liquor in her belly is a feeling she wants to linger in.

She can't recall the last time she'd made a man groan for her, squirm for her, arch beneath the caresses of her hands, her mouth, the squeeze of her cunt; she grins against his torso and then delivers a teasing nip along that taut canvas, hard enough for a potential mark to bloom.

Before she can move on he's already drawing her up to him, fingers curving beneath the fabric of her undergarments, and the thinly indicated threat of his intentions to rip them off her if she doesn't remove them quickly enough elicits a shiver as she presses into him, breasts straining needfully against the bodice of her gown. ]

No. We wouldn't want that.

[ But the tone in her voice makes it plain that she, at least, wouldn't object to a sudden display of strength from him in that sense, even while she idly continues to rock her hips into his, thighs tensing at either side of his waist, the friction of fabric still between them only adding to her already mounting desire. ]

[He arches into the blunt force of her teeth - a pinch that does flush his skin and teases it almost apart, breaking the blood vessels underneath. At this intensity, it only fans the embers of the already healthy heat in his core. He grins, enjoying the smile that escorts the bite, even if the red patch lingers for only a second or two; gone the next blink of an eye. The skin on his back had been smooth and flawless when he had come out of the woods that day, but he still remembers her nails digging against his shoulders and sides. It makes him wonder where else she could hold onto, what other parts of his body she would find purchase on.

Questions about how strong Dante is have been asked all his life. He usually doesn't reply to them, avoids unnecessary shows of strength, even how quick he heals is something he plays close to his chest. He'd rather save that for when it's truly necessary.

So he arches his eyebrows when she takes the threat's face value and weaves actual intent into it. Sounds as challenging as possible, the tone of her voice teasing him into actually doing it.

And there he is, shirt open, bulge straining against his pants, Vanessa's breasts tantalizingly pressed against his chest in the confines of a bodice, and her challenge to actually rip her panties off.

Talk about a Victorian book scene.

The laugh he presses against her lips and down her neck is delighted, and his hand slides over to the side of her hip, both fists bunching the fabric.]

Hold still. [Is the amused tone of his voice against her ear as a warning before the first band around her waist snaps.]

[ Now that is interesting, she thinks to herself, noting how that mark lingers angry and red for merely the span of a few seconds before fading altogether; she has a dimmer recollection of his skin being completely unmarred as they'd left the woods that day while her own had born the brunt of it, scrapes and cuts from twigs and a rough and unforgiving ground beneath her, but she'd been too addled to attribute it to anything at the time, the effects of the injection still continuing to wear off. Now, however, she can't quite strike the open fascination in her gaze, not so distracted that she overlooks his ability to heal so quickly.

On sudden impulse, she presses her fingertips into his chest, digs in hard enough for him to feel the blunt rounds of her nails before dragging them down, leaving thin red lines in their wake — not with the intention of cutting but rather to make that blood rush up beneath the surface of the skin again, vivid and inviting more scratching against that unmarred complexion.

Her breath catches at the sight of it before she can truly repress the response, lashes fluttering briefly — but that's only a small shade next to her reaction when he gathers up that delicate fabric in his hands, wrinkling it in a fisting grip.

And then he pulls, hard enough to drag her hips, and the harsh sound of that silk being torn apart makes her gasp, tilt her head to claim his mouth, to let all her subsequent moans dissolve in the fervor of their kissing while he rids her of that obstacle without her needing to disentangle herself from her perch atop him.

It brings with it a renewed rush of wanting between her legs, that dimmer pulse now an undeniable throbbing, a brighter flush residing in her cheeks as her lips part from his and her eyes search his face, fingers lightly cupping his jaw. ]

Hell, yeah. [Jaw going slack at the first cinch of her nails on his skin, he watches her drag and scratch his chest, snagging here and there in their wake, letting out an audible hiss as the flesh underneath contracts, rolls to a tension that pools in his core, makes the muscles in his stomach twitch as he stutteringly expels the air inside. He swallows a knot in his throat, feeling himself twitch under her weight, soaking up the front of his trousers.

Even if Dante loves to indulge a cliché as this is, a fervent reaction such as this makes it even the more worth it. His heartbeat is surging, eyes closing as he wishes he can drink in the sounds she's making as he tears the fabric - a final, more forceful tug snaps the other hem. He smooths his hand over the now naked fold of her hip and thigh, opens heavy-lidded eyes to hers, but not without lingering on her lips, her cheek, first. He grins, tilts his nose to brush against hers, reveling in the look of her.]

Sorry about that, [not apologetically at all, hands already exploring the skin he uncovered without much modesty - was she always this soft?] I'll make it up to you?

[ She moans, close to a purring sound, appreciation and admiration combined at the sight of him basking beneath the scoring of her nails that create marks just long enough for her to make note of them before they fade and ultimately disappear — and she can't help but wonder, then, how much time would have to pass for him to repair if she did draw blood, if the cuts she made on him ran deeper than the mere superficial lines she's delivering now.

There's another firm tug, tension that builds and then snaps and the fabric immediately gives way across her hip, reduced to uselessness with only that mere act. It feels rather like a secret only the two of them know now, if they were to be interrupted with her sitting astride him like this, his cock buried inside her; perhaps they'd be able to disguise it with her skirts arranged across his lap even as she managed tight, subtle swirls of her hips, squeezed him with her inner muscles, made him fight to repress a groan all the while.

Her mouth drifts across his again and she's certain he can feel the curving of her lips when she smiles, the shift and pull it creates before she delivers a teasing nip to his lower followed by a flick of her tongue against the upper. ] See that you do.

[Maybe it says a lot about her that Dante doesn't mind the appreciative look, even though he tends to keep this close to his chest - pun not intended - outside of a battle, where his opponent is just as able to do it. Or maybe it says a lot about the power affecting him instead, causing him to feel sated under her gaze, parched when she's not touching him intently, even if she that intention means to tear.

He makes a snap with his teeth in the air just after Vanessa withdraws her tongue, lands a soft but yearnful kiss upon the bow of her upper lip. The chuckle he lets out is almost musical, both taunting, a reaction that stems from any demands made his way, and appreciative at the smile he feels against him. ] Yes, Ma'am.

[He kisses her then, fully. Turns his face just so to deepen it, because at this point he's hungry and unable to hide it. And as weird as it is, it's kissing her that turns a fast, sharp fuse of heat into a slow burn that both feeds and soothes him. And he needs that - he figures that if he enters her then, everything else will be very shortlived.

He'll think about that particular concern, later.

When he releases her, the hand on her hips guide her upwards, and he trails nips and kisses down her neck again, across her chest - a particularly harsh bite right by her cleavage to get back at her from that last one, even if gentle enough not to mar her skin much. He scoots lower, and, with a final waggle of his eyebrows, he makes his weight slide enough - using the coffee table behind them to prop his legs and feet (how he manages to miss both the glasses and the bottle is beyond explanation) as his head disappears beneath her skirts, the flat of his tongue lapping at her folds the millisecond
after.]

[ The playfulness of it doesn't necessarily take her by surprise, but she does blink slightly, that hazy lust in her expression soon replaced by a small grin, her hands stroking over him all the while, alternating lighter grazes of her fingertips with harder scratches; it's no secret, the effect that's having on him, because she can feel it nudging against her inner thigh, hardness against that soft, freely exposed skin while he kisses her, deep and needing.

She makes her own need plain in the way she cups the side of his face, fingers spindled out across the strength of his features and palm pressed against his jaw for those few seconds before his mouth begins its descent. The kisses prompt a low laugh, the sharp bite a gasp, and her hands fly to rest upon his shoulders for those moments that he hovers close enough for her to ponder leaning in to steal another nip from the fullness of his lips, but the heat he's stoking within her is rising too hot, too intense for her to ignore for much longer.

Fortunately, thanks to him, she won't be forced to.

Confusion blooms in her features when he starts to slip further down the sofa, along her body, but then she soon learns where he's headed and it takes some maneuvering for her to work a hand beneath her layers, to pull the torn scrap of cloth from between her legs, to render herself completely exposed for the ministrations of his mouth, his tongue.

She's forced to find purchase somewhere, in the couch cushions, needing something to hold onto when his head dips between her thighs beneath the fullness of her skirts, hidden from her sight but not from her senses altogether, and she knows he'll be rewarded with the growing slickness there to collect with every sweeping lick through her folds that prompts a sound from deep within her chest. ] Oh —

[From this position, he can't really see her face, and it's a shame. It's one of the few good things from that cursed fort that is burned in the back of his eyes, her soft expression as she abandons thought, parts her lips and delivers herself to the sensation of being with him.

But the scent of her under her skirt is intoxicating, and while he couldn't see her, he sensed the slight shake of her thighs as he runs his hands over them, tilts her hips into his mouth as he takes that first taste of her. The wetness he drinks eagerly still comes as a surprise to him, and he hums, tightens his grip on her, as if molding the flesh under his fingers.

That she seems so ready for him is enough to make him ponder if he should actually pull back up, unfasten his belt. But he hears the guttural moan above, muffled as it is by the fabric surrounding him but rumbling through her down to her hips. It's similar to the ones he heard in the forest, and he remembers, that he didn't have any inclination to learn about her then, only a mean to an end. And as tempting as the idea of having her tight around him seems, he decides to rub his stubble roughly against her inner thigh, enough to make that sensitive skin pink. Leans in again, kisses the crux of her slit softly, flicking and swirling his tongue against her clit once, twice, attentive, as he runs the tip of it down her labia with insistent strokes to find just what exactly made her tick.]

[ She finds she does prefer their shared eye contact, as soon as he disappears from view, but it's not as if he hasn't offered her something else of himself in exchange, feeling over what she can no longer see, and the sensation of his chest vibrating against her body with the depth of his sounds provide an added stimulation to the gripping of his fingers against the pert flesh of her rear, the delving strokes of his tongue across the source of her arousal.

She tightens her grip on the pillows, shifts her hips a fraction of an inch along his mouth — though she twitches restlessly at the ticklish burn of his facial hair against the inside of her thigh. That pairing of pleasure and brief pain does everything to further her current state, the need that practically drips out of her now to slick his lips when he kisses her there, the caress maddeningly light until he gives her more pressure, more exploration.

Her own mouth falls open, gasps and moans leaving her more freely now as he tongues over her, that tiny bundle of nerve endings so swollen and pliant as he teases it, delves across those most intimate parts of her beneath, and her thighs shake atop his shoulders, heat building on top of heat in her core. ] Your mouth — [ It's a thought voiced out loud, almost wondrous; they hadn't spared one another the time for this before, but they have it now, enough for him to learn her. ]

[He loves this, the little twitches he feels, first as if moving away from the sensation, then tilting towards him for more. He revels in the gasp, and almost wishes he wasn't completely covered - next time, he may just guide her hands to his hair. He'd rather she find purchase on him instead of the furniture.

So he teases her still for a second more, a lesson after a lesson. Suckles on the flushed flesh there, rakes his teeth along the labia, chases them with his tongue to soften the blow.

Once he figures out an angle she keeps returning to, a hand comes around her thigh to steady her there, and he presses his thumb on that bundle of nerves in soft, slow circles first, burrowing his nose next to it as he tries to curl his tongue inside her to drink from the source.]

[ It may be less than ideal, their decision to do this somewhat spontaneously rather than devote time and energy to fully disrobing; it means that he's effectively buried beneath her skirts and she can't help but spare a thought as to how he's even managing to breathe down there, but his mouth doesn't cease moving against her and neither does she, evolving to tiny, stuttered rolls of her hips when he presses his tongue inside her, prompting another shudder from her body.

She's also never had this level of attention given there, all of her previous encounters save one having been driven by impulse and the need to merely fuck, and she hadn't initially trusted herself to not lose control upon her arrival here after learning what was required — but with him, somehow, those fears dissipate in the wake of his hands on her, his mouth.

The dual stimulation is what makes her gasp anew, when he pairs fingers with tongue, manipulating both until her noises fall higher from her throat, louder; she's held fast by the hand on her thigh and all she can do is grind weakly against him, chasing the tension that begins to forge itself into something that will eventually break her open. ]

[Licking his lips as if he's eagerly catching the remnants of a melting ice cream on them, Dante only gives her some room to press soft kisses on the inside of her thigh to accommodate both of them a little better, have his arms switch position from around her legs to between them (with a little flutter of her skirts included).

There, he's able to maneuver his hands differently. Probably something that she won't appreciate for a second or two, as it interrupted their rhythm; but as her voice escalates and jumps octaves, he feels he really has to do it. He wants more than that, he wants her to yell out his name. He sucks loud and wet on two fingers, sliding their tips along to her entrance as a warning shot before he slides them in, feeling and curling against the tight warmth, thumb back to its previous position, rolling over her clit slowly and building up pressure.

Really, the groan that escapes him at all of this - how easy it is to slide his long fingers, how she tastes and sounds - is only muffled because he's still running the tip and the flat of his tongue around his touch, letting the roll of her hips dictate where and how he should be reaching, close his eyes, and become this consistent - and insistent - motion of thrusting, curling and rubbing until she falls apart.]

[ With him remaining sight unseen, she can only venture a guess as to what he might be up to until he actually starts doing it, the light rustling of her skirts following another movement as he shifts his arms to rest within the cradle of her thighs instead — and the ease with which he maneuvers her provokes a small grin, a low chuckle of surprise before she resumes a steadier position atop his shoulders.

But then she understands, the sounds of suction preceding the slow breach of long, thick fingers deep inside her; her head tips back and she nearly comes apart right then and there, inner walls squeezing instinctively around those strong digits, that blatant penetration. He gives her the lash of his tongue again when the thrusting starts and she cries out, helpless in the face of that pleasurable onslaught, powerless to do anything but writhe over him.

His name leaves her in the breath she tries to claim for herself, but she's already going taut, rigid, trembling like a newly plucked bowstring; she doesn't have time to give warning before all her remaining composure shatters and she gives herself over to her release, tight heat spasming around his fingers and the relentless rhythm of his tongue. ]

[He smiles, then, wide and pleased. His other hand slides up her thigh, across the small of her back, the curve of her hips as they twitch and she gasps. He doesn’t see her, but he feels the clench of her around his fingers, the heat of her shivers. It’s probably for the best that he’s not getting the first row to this scene; at this point, he’d be embarrassingly close to reaching the brink himself, with only the feel of her against his hands and mouth and the pressure of his trousers.

The hum he lets out is a mere soothing sound, an assurance that he’s not letting her go just yet, just letting her crest the wave she’s on, and riding it down, even as the motion of his fingers relents and the pace of his tongue becomes indulgent.]

[ It's the first time she's come apart from something solely within herself, mounting ecstasy that hasn't been provoked by forced injection or capsule; she'd wondered even then if this was all it was ever going to be, chemicals and formulas to lower her inhibitions, to make this even remotely a possibility. But the way she's trembling against him now is entirely a product of his touch, the firm thrusts of his hand and the tongue that dissolves to slow lapping.

Yet inevitably she wants to see him again, and even against her thighs' protesting she eases herself down from him, sliding along the length of his body and adjusting her skirts until she can seat herself across his lap again, until she can take his mouth again, tasting herself there with a pleased hum. ]

[The air outside of her skirts is cooler, but he still feels heated as he meets her halfway, pushes himself back up, hair disheveled, lips swollen for the two seconds they manage to be. Her mouth finds his own without much of an objection or hesitance at where they have been, and he groans in return, brings his arms around her to hold her tight and steady against him.

He could stay here kissing her for hours, he figures, but the shift of his weight on his seat is getting impertinent and needful. The cant of his head goes further, then, to try to distract himself by deepening the kiss, but it's short; he shivers and pulls back to rest his forehead against hers.] Help me with my belt?

[ He won't have to ask twice; even before he finishes the question, she's shifted her weight back to settle closer to his knees, her smaller hands moving between their bodies to find the front buckle and working the leather out of it, loosening it with a harder tug that betrays her eagerness, her want for him nowhere near diminished.

She won't be content to stop there, either, fingers locating the fastenings on his trousers and deftly making quick work of them.

It's a similarly minimal effort for her to turn her wrist, to guide her hand beneath the open front, to find the hard, heavy weight of his cock and caress it blatantly, firm strokes that are likely not necessary given how roused he already is and partly selfish in their application too. She groans, soft and low. ] I've thought about you inside me ever since that first time.

[He arches into the flimsy touch of her fingers on his clothes for half a second before he steadies himself, muddled brain kicking into gear when he realizes that it'll be easier for her if he stays still. His breathing grows deeper, a little ragged, but he keeps it slow, steady, save for the sharp inhale of release when she frees him out of the uncomfortable tightness of his pants, flushed, hard and leaking. Dante grits his teeth at her grasp, small hand but soft and easy to warm against his skin to struggle against the sensation of her fingers finally where it matters to him most.

And she speaks and he flutters his eyelids closed, a thirsty man panting for the sound of her voice, the words she's saying. He's the same, he wants to say. He may have not occupied his head with good thoughts about it, not on how revolted he had been at the repetition of the scene of what happened between them in his mind, but on how it could be a mere play of this place's machinations. But the rest, how easily she fit against him, the curl of humor in the tone of her words, how unafraid she was of requesting him more than he had thought to ever give. It all got under his skin too easily.

That she's the same, however, strikes something that goes beyond the foreign impulse of acting on his own lust. It's a relief and a reminder that he's not alone - not this time - in this. He reaches for the back of her head, pushes himself forward towards her to brush his nose across her cheek.] You know what they say about great minds.

Let me in once more.

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