[His sudden drop in energy surprises her, but she matches it, not wanting to overwhelm him. She takes a few steps back, watching him with obvious desire as he removes his kilt (and it really is a ridiculous garment, what on earth the Scots were thinking when they invented it she's sure she doesn't know, but that's a fight they'll have another time). His boots are next, and then his shirt, and he's . . .
She doesn't see it yet. She doesn't realize. But what she does see, she knows she enjoys. He's a rough man, battle-scarred and muscled, but that's no bad thing.]
Did you think I wouldn't like you?
[She says it softly. It's not the cloyingly sweet thing it had been before, arrogance masked as politeness. Rosalind reaches for him, her fingers sliding up his bare chest, a slight smile on her face. Her other hand drags idly over his side, pleased at the warmth she finds. There's a scar that's particularly large on his side, a circle that makes her curious as to what might have happened, but she won't ruin the mood by asking.
Tonight, perhaps, between rounds, when they're sated and exploring one another's bodies more languidly. But right now, her fingers ignore it, gliding further down, teasing at the jut of his hip.]
I do. Very much.
[She reaches for his hands now, putting them on her hips, encouraging him to touch in return. He hadn't needed prompting before, but there's a world of difference between groping outside a bar and touching a naked woman properly.
Her hips are wide, inching out just a touch wider than proportionately attractive, but Rosalind has never minded. Pale skin littered with freckles and the noticeable swell of her chest means she's few insecurities when it comes to her body. She squirms, leaning back only enough that he might see her more, and reaches to rub her thumb against his bottom lip.]
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Date: 2018-03-14 06:37 am (UTC)She doesn't see it yet. She doesn't realize. But what she does see, she knows she enjoys. He's a rough man, battle-scarred and muscled, but that's no bad thing.]
Did you think I wouldn't like you?
[She says it softly. It's not the cloyingly sweet thing it had been before, arrogance masked as politeness. Rosalind reaches for him, her fingers sliding up his bare chest, a slight smile on her face. Her other hand drags idly over his side, pleased at the warmth she finds. There's a scar that's particularly large on his side, a circle that makes her curious as to what might have happened, but she won't ruin the mood by asking.
Tonight, perhaps, between rounds, when they're sated and exploring one another's bodies more languidly. But right now, her fingers ignore it, gliding further down, teasing at the jut of his hip.]
I do. Very much.
[She reaches for his hands now, putting them on her hips, encouraging him to touch in return. He hadn't needed prompting before, but there's a world of difference between groping outside a bar and touching a naked woman properly.
Her hips are wide, inching out just a touch wider than proportionately attractive, but Rosalind has never minded. Pale skin littered with freckles and the noticeable swell of her chest means she's few insecurities when it comes to her body. She squirms, leaning back only enough that he might see her more, and reaches to rub her thumb against his bottom lip.]
You're bleeding . . .