we're always running scared but holding knives
Inhaling sharply and letting her fingers curl through the back of his hair automatically to feel his tongue and teeth against her breast, Isla has to take a second or two to gather her senses. As Remi gazes up at her, it will be to see the doctor breathless and blushing and tongue-tied, and only as she trusts herself to gaze down at him does she coax her tongue into producing words again.
"What you are," she whispers, "is bold to assume that you're the one doing the having." Her smile isn't necessarily wicked, but there's definitely more than a damsel sitting at the edge of the bed. And as reluctant as he might be, there's nothing but approval in Isla's expression as he finally sheds his shirt, the doctor tilting his head up and leaning in to deliver a kiss against his lips. "They're just scars," she whispers. "They're not who you are."
"What you are," she whispers, "is bold to assume that you're the one doing the having." Her smile isn't necessarily wicked, but there's definitely more than a damsel sitting at the edge of the bed. And as reluctant as he might be, there's nothing but approval in Isla's expression as he finally sheds his shirt, the doctor tilting his head up and leaning in to deliver a kiss against his lips. "They're just scars," she whispers. "They're not who you are."
Isla
