Her fingers move deftly, make quick work of the strands as she weaves them around and over and in to one another. The weight and warmth of her hand is still a lingering feeling on his leg. Darras watches her work, raises a hand to touch his thumb to the nape of her neck, the soft indent of that tender spot.

"At least one now," he says. The knob of her sine is just there, a little sharp under her pale skin. There's a freckle there which stubbornly has not faded. He leans in and presses a kiss there. Her skin smells sweetly like soap and water and like her, but there's something that lingers underneath. A shadow of a scent, a reminder of how much more there is lurking. Not right now.