[Rosalind leans a little more heavily against him, trusting him to guide their steps, for just one moment basking in the mild affection. Sex aside, she very much simply enjoys his company. He's a reminder of home, for all that he comes a hundred years behind her.
Though no proper gentleman at home would say the things he says. Rosalind's grip on his arm tightens, and god, but she hates, she really truly hates that she loves this so much. Why this? Why this of all things, why on earth does this do it for her, but it does and they both know it.
At least it seems to turn him on as much as it does her. She'd never get over her humiliation if he was secretly laughing at all this.]
All this, and you haven't even kissed me yet.
[It's an airy observation, and she glances up at him. If they're going to play, she's going to play; that challenging look is back, arch and arrogant.]
And what, may I ask, is that for? What have I done to deserve that? Because really, Jamie . . . if you wanted me to act a brat, you ought to have said. That was the least of what I could have done.
But if that's what you want . . . then it's the least I will do, too.
[She pulls away from him before he can answer, leading the way into a small apartment building. It's not a glamorous place, but it suits her purposes, and the landlord doesn't ask too many questions about why she only appears for one week out of the month.
She's very aware of him behind her as she walks up the stairs, which might be why she goes a little quickly, skittish despite herself.
The apartment is small, but certainly not modest. A thick couch sits in the middle of shelves stocked with books. There's a record player in the corner, and a small table that has a few scattered pieces of paper filled with notes on whatever it is she's working on. Her bedroom is off to the side, her door half closed, but she doesn't lead them there just yet.
Instead she turns, facing him, taking a few deliberate steps backwards.]</small
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Date: 2018-03-14 05:44 am (UTC)Though no proper gentleman at home would say the things he says. Rosalind's grip on his arm tightens, and god, but she hates, she really truly hates that she loves this so much. Why this? Why this of all things, why on earth does this do it for her, but it does and they both know it.
At least it seems to turn him on as much as it does her. She'd never get over her humiliation if he was secretly laughing at all this.]
All this, and you haven't even kissed me yet.
[It's an airy observation, and she glances up at him. If they're going to play, she's going to play; that challenging look is back, arch and arrogant.]
And what, may I ask, is that for? What have I done to deserve that? Because really, Jamie . . . if you wanted me to act a brat, you ought to have said. That was the least of what I could have done.
But if that's what you want . . . then it's the least I will do, too.
[She pulls away from him before he can answer, leading the way into a small apartment building. It's not a glamorous place, but it suits her purposes, and the landlord doesn't ask too many questions about why she only appears for one week out of the month.
She's very aware of him behind her as she walks up the stairs, which might be why she goes a little quickly, skittish despite herself.
The apartment is small, but certainly not modest. A thick couch sits in the middle of shelves stocked with books. There's a record player in the corner, and a small table that has a few scattered pieces of paper filled with notes on whatever it is she's working on. Her bedroom is off to the side, her door half closed, but she doesn't lead them there just yet.
Instead she turns, facing him, taking a few deliberate steps backwards.]</small