andhiswife | (Reply)

Greta leans back against him, the warmth of his arms around her an excellent antidote to the slight chill of being without a shirt. Her other hand rests against his forearm in subtle encouragement. Granted, the sleeve beneath her fingers is a mild disappointment, and part of her wonders how she might go about getting him out of his shirt. But there's also something undeniably thrilling about just letting him do as he likes, even if that means unwrapping her like a gift while he remains fully clothed.

"I do try," she says with a faint smile.

As predicted, his comment about his relative lack of boldness earns him a roll of her eyes and a soft, exasperated snort. It wasn't entirely untrue, especially when they first started seeing one another, but she likes to think he's made some strides over the past year. "My poor, wilting violet," she murmurs, even as she pointedly rocks her hips backward on wilting. "It's such a pleasure, watching you come into your own." She grins a moment later; that wasn't even deliberate, but it's too good to waste. "So to speak."