Lion Head Mesa the [m]arble hall

And his mind did not leave hers.

He came around her in fluidity. Her head followed, and as if his flank had brushed her face, she leaned into it. It did not, and yet to her it did. It did not matter. She believed it to have, and to her it did. His air stroking her was enough, and it expelled her own from her lungs. He would not have known it. He didn't need to. If he did, she would not mind, that his passing frame let her bathe in, savor the feeling of being airless after it quietly left her nose. "Yes." To his voice, there was immediate obedience. The backs of his legs were followed by her until her body was in front of one of the cups.

In a sit, her legs tucked, her neck bowed down and her mouth pointed towards the wine as its scent burned down her nostrils. In the air of his own, she relished in how it complimented the air in his chambers and him. Yet, she did not drink. He asked to do so together, and when her tongue collided with the cup, she wished that together the sting of it rushing down their throats would be felt in unison. Unless he told otherwise.