—ooooh, she wants to say no, but how transparently obvious that is would belie the lie at once, and she concedes, “Maybe,” meaning yes, of course, put out in the most lighthearted of ways and distracted, more than she feels like immediately admitting, by the brief, warm press of his lips. Probably there's an element of redressing that when she sits up straighter to properly divest herself of corset and bodice — the chemise beneath is delicate and sheer, folds pressed into it by how tightly laced she'd been, the pattern of old, cauterized scars demonstrating how close she'd come to losing a nipple to a rage demon all those years ago, on that lonely road out of this same city.

At the time, it had been the worst thing that had ever happened to her. Now,

well, a lot has happened since then, and she's long since left behind the doubts about her body or her beauty after all of it, assured in herself, and interested in being desired.

It doesn't seem so unreasonable a thing, she's always thought; to want to be wanted. To want to feel that she is.