Marcus takes the piece carefully, as if it might shatter immediately on contact, but becomes more sure of it as he turns it over in his hands, finding the clasps. "Hold your hair up," he says, before lifting the necklace. Gently wrapping metal around her throat, his knuckles brushing against the back of her neck as he sees to the clasp.
Less dexterous than the maid, but gentler, and careful. Once it's secure, he sets about brushing the chains and dangling bells to sit properly, running a finger beneath one. Deliberate enough in this manner of prolonging the moment that Derrica could surely sense it. He would certainly like to stay. There are some probably more sensible pieces of furniture they could have done this on.
He imagines, briefly, how it would be to have her bent over the edge of that desk, silk pulled up high, or on her back, against the plush couch further near the windows. Something to torture himself with as he undoes the last tangle. Yes, he'd like to say.
Instead, he picks up her shawl. Runs it through over a hand to shake it back into its shape, offering it out to her.
Marcus has a way of focusing his attention on a thing, applying such care and thoroughness to actions he devotes himself to in the wake of it. If Derrica's flush had abated at all, the reattachment and arrangement of her necklace brings all that warmth back to her. It rises to the surface instantly under the application of his finger over her chest, searing through light fabric.
Yes, she understands. He would like to stay. If she is being honest, she would like to stay here too.
But returned more or less to her previous state, loosened locks of hair aside, Derrica reaches out to take her shawl. Returns it to an elegant drape down her shoulders, though they both have to be aware of how simple it had been to shrug off. How simple it was to unfasten the necklace. How easy it would be to return to more pleasant tasks.
"I'll see you in the ballroom," she tells him, as if his is any ordinary day and she cannot feel the ache of bruises forming on the backs of her thighs.
This is only sensible, she knows. It is still a wrench to hear the door close behind him, and worse to be left with her own thoughts afterwards.
And they still have hours of party left. It's that consideration that spurs her to set the whole thing, all her questions and uncertainties and the lingering flushed giddiness of adrenaline aside, so she might do her duty while they're here.
If she takes care not to be alone in his company again for the rest of the night, it only a safeguard against: the knowledge that the little room they had exited indeed had a lock on the door.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
it's all on you
Marcus takes the piece carefully, as if it might shatter immediately on contact, but becomes more sure of it as he turns it over in his hands, finding the clasps. "Hold your hair up," he says, before lifting the necklace. Gently wrapping metal around her throat, his knuckles brushing against the back of her neck as he sees to the clasp.
Less dexterous than the maid, but gentler, and careful. Once it's secure, he sets about brushing the chains and dangling bells to sit properly, running a finger beneath one. Deliberate enough in this manner of prolonging the moment that Derrica could surely sense it. He would certainly like to stay. There are some probably more sensible pieces of furniture they could have done this on.
He imagines, briefly, how it would be to have her bent over the edge of that desk, silk pulled up high, or on her back, against the plush couch further near the windows. Something to torture himself with as he undoes the last tangle. Yes, he'd like to say.
Instead, he picks up her shawl. Runs it through over a hand to shake it back into its shape, offering it out to her.
challenge accepted
Yes, she understands. He would like to stay. If she is being honest, she would like to stay here too.
But returned more or less to her previous state, loosened locks of hair aside, Derrica reaches out to take her shawl. Returns it to an elegant drape down her shoulders, though they both have to be aware of how simple it had been to shrug off. How simple it was to unfasten the necklace. How easy it would be to return to more pleasant tasks.
"I'll see you in the ballroom," she tells him, as if his is any ordinary day and she cannot feel the ache of bruises forming on the backs of her thighs.
This is only sensible, she knows. It is still a wrench to hear the door close behind him, and worse to be left with her own thoughts afterwards.
And they still have hours of party left. It's that consideration that spurs her to set the whole thing, all her questions and uncertainties and the lingering flushed giddiness of adrenaline aside, so she might do her duty while they're here.
If she takes care not to be alone in his company again for the rest of the night, it only a safeguard against: the knowledge that the little room they had exited indeed had a lock on the door.