He can feel her pulse beneath the skin, a bird beating its wings against the walls of its confinement; her breath hitches beneath his lips, and even if he could not see her curiosity and her desire in her face, he hears it in her voice, and smirks. It was not unthinkable, until this moment, that she would flinch: that in this moment, propriety or fear would get the better of lust and this whole arrangement would fall apart. It would not have been a disaster if so - she has nothing that can harm him - but it would have been a shame.

It no longer seems probable that she will flee. Not when she is so pliant against him, and not when she was the one who bit first. He does not leave a mark, no matter how her guiding hand might invite it, but only nips playfully - albeit hard - at her neck, then draws back with a smile.

"You hardly seem disturbed by the idea," he muses aloud, and brushes a lock of gold back from her temple.