[ If it were about winning then right now he'd refuse on principle. The principle being don't tell me what to do. Or maybe I'm busy. For a moment, slightly strangled by his own shirt and everything, he looks considering bordering on mutinous. Then his glare shifts into something better-humored and he pulls his hands away from her wrist and her chest, in that order of lingering reluctance, to peel out of his shirt and drop it onto the sill. He undoes his belt, too. While he's at it.
But from there his hand wanders to her knee and up beneath her skirt, first to jerk them both flush at the hips, and then to search for the upper end of her stockings, and then to be temporarily distracted from that goal by the prospect of pushing against her and crawling his hand further up to find bare skin at her side. Another place that's softer than most of her—and he's a fan of the harder places, too, objectively and aesthetically speaking, but there's less there to sink his fingertips into.
no subject
But from there his hand wanders to her knee and up beneath her skirt, first to jerk them both flush at the hips, and then to search for the upper end of her stockings, and then to be temporarily distracted from that goal by the prospect of pushing against her and crawling his hand further up to find bare skin at her side. Another place that's softer than most of her—and he's a fan of the harder places, too, objectively and aesthetically speaking, but there's less there to sink his fingertips into.
He dips his head, mouth near her ear. ]
Seasick nun.