[It's very, very hard for her not to react to that. What reaction, she isn't certain; half of her is desperate to melt against him as she agrees, while the other half wants to slap him for such impudence. (She's certain she's going to slap him at least once before the night ends; she just won't do it in the middle of a crowded bar).
What should she say? Denying it seems both stupid and laughable. He's absolutely right: she does like it, very much, enough so that her breath had shaken in her next exhale as he'd laughed quietly in her ear. Enough that she knows he'll laugh when they finally tumble into bed, because she's ridiculously wet already all from the way he's talking. But eagerly agreeing is far too shameful for her to consider.]
Am I yours, then? You tug me into your lap and that's that, is that how it works?
[There. Neither agreeing nor disagreeing, and she turns her head, catching his eye again, something challenging in her gaze.
He has his wife and she has her Robert, and so that's a bit of a misleading question, she knows. Neither of them think this is anything more than it is: two friends enjoying one another, nothing more or less.
But for tonight . . . yes, she decides, yes, she'd be quite content to be his for the night. One possessive, hungry evening, where they throw themselves at one another with no delusions as to what it might or might not lead to. She'd be content to be someone else's for that time.
Rosalind sips at her drink, waiting for an answer-- and then, pointedly, squirms again, shifting just enough to tease without being obvious. Robert had always enjoyed her hips and backside; she wonders smugly if Jamie can really say the same. He's surely going to run into trouble soon if she keeps moving, but that seems a problem for him, not her.]
And I'm not good.
[That's likely the alcohol talking. She isn't good, but she wouldn't have insisted on that normally.]
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Date: 2018-03-12 05:40 pm (UTC)What should she say? Denying it seems both stupid and laughable. He's absolutely right: she does like it, very much, enough so that her breath had shaken in her next exhale as he'd laughed quietly in her ear. Enough that she knows he'll laugh when they finally tumble into bed, because she's ridiculously wet already all from the way he's talking. But eagerly agreeing is far too shameful for her to consider.]
Am I yours, then? You tug me into your lap and that's that, is that how it works?
[There. Neither agreeing nor disagreeing, and she turns her head, catching his eye again, something challenging in her gaze.
He has his wife and she has her Robert, and so that's a bit of a misleading question, she knows. Neither of them think this is anything more than it is: two friends enjoying one another, nothing more or less.
But for tonight . . . yes, she decides, yes, she'd be quite content to be his for the night. One possessive, hungry evening, where they throw themselves at one another with no delusions as to what it might or might not lead to. She'd be content to be someone else's for that time.
Rosalind sips at her drink, waiting for an answer-- and then, pointedly, squirms again, shifting just enough to tease without being obvious. Robert had always enjoyed her hips and backside; she wonders smugly if Jamie can really say the same. He's surely going to run into trouble soon if she keeps moving, but that seems a problem for him, not her.]
And I'm not good.
[That's likely the alcohol talking. She isn't good, but she wouldn't have insisted on that normally.]