"Color," she said quietly.

"Green," he breathed. "Extremely green Mara. Please—"

"Please what."

"More," he said. "Please. I've been—" he stopped. "The whole dinner. Please."

She stroked him again. Tighter. His hips shifted.

"Still," she said.

He went still. His jaw working.

She stroked him thoroughly — her hand moving faster, her grip tightening, watching his face come apart in the moving light of the passing city — and felt him getting close, felt it in his breathing and his jaw and his hands pressing into his own knees with the effort of not reaching for her.

She stopped.

He made a sound of pure frustrated desperation.

"Mara—"

"Look at...