[ He chuckles, already in the process of obliging as he undoes his buttons with the quick efficiency of practice. When his shirt's fully open, he shrugs out of it, fabric sliding off his shoulders and the lingering impression of his fingers along his chest and stomach noticeable only because of the dark. His shirt is still clinging to his lower arms from his elbow down when he leans forward and kisses her face, vaguely aiming for her lips but fairly certain he'll miss, and content with any kind of kiss that lands on her. ]
You're not supposed to see them, you're supposed to feel them.
[ Still grinning, still amused but also anticipating when her hands find him, trace against his skin, for whatever patterns she paints into being. ]
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You're not supposed to see them, you're supposed to feel them.
[ Still grinning, still amused but also anticipating when her hands find him, trace against his skin, for whatever patterns she paints into being. ]