[Not really a question for him anymore. (Not the sort of game he can resist.) But there's something to be said for playing close to the vest.
He leans in so that his mouth is by her ear, cheeks nearly brushing but not quite. One hand closes over hers, his thumb stealing into the groove of her palm, and he holds her there, so she can feel every vibration of his vocal chords.]
I think-- [he exhales, thoughtfully] --you've wrinkled my clothes enough already.
[And then he presses back, pushes her hand down and away, an attempt to reclaim space between them without taking a step backwards himself.
no subject
He leans in so that his mouth is by her ear, cheeks nearly brushing but not quite. One hand closes over hers, his thumb stealing into the groove of her palm, and he holds her there, so she can feel every vibration of his vocal chords.]
I think-- [he exhales, thoughtfully] --you've wrinkled my clothes enough already.
[And then he presses back, pushes her hand down and away, an attempt to reclaim space between them without taking a step backwards himself.
He'll play, but he plays on his terms.]