[ The positive noise he makes is like a match to gasoline under her skin. She feels greedy, wanting to draw another one out, wanting to collect every single sound, if only for a night.

Or, perhaps, if only for a week. Time would tell. They're just getting started, after all.

He picks up where she left off, conversationally, physically, working his way down to her neck. She tilts her chin, gives him more space, humming at the soft rasp of his beard against her skin. There's a grateful awareness, as well, that his hold on her is loose enough to break from. Clearly, he's thought about her comfort, about her safety, even in a moment as heated as the one they're entangled in. Such consideration gives her another bubbly feeling of giddiness, as though her lungs are full of champagne. ]

The Ivory Empress' Gardens. [ She replies, moving her hand from his thigh to trace the stitching on the fly of his trousers. Her free hand follows the line of his arm to his shoulder, slipping between the collar of his shirt and neck. Fingers tangling in the curls there, she gently scrapes her nails through the locks. ] Winding paths, a lake, the most serene natural spring—

[ All of this at odds with how she gives a light, playful tug of his hair. Followed by finally, finally cupping him through his pants. ]

—this time of year, the cherry trees are due to bloom.