Amalia
stop thinking so much
He turns away obediently, another laugh, another tease; and Amalia smirks in reply, raising her own golden brow. "Is that so bad?" she answers slyly, slipping her legs beneath herself so she sits on her knees inside the tub, her hands trailing gently down his exposed back. Grasping a towel from the chair, Amalia settles it into the water, wrapping it carefully around the soap. Her grandmother used to do this when she was a child, and for a moment the girl hesitates, wondering if it is juvenile, if she ought not to have offered such a thing. But... the feeling of hands running down her back has always made the girl feel safe and loved, comforted and cared for, warm and at peace. She wants those things for him, too. She wants to prove her affection runs deeper than the raging heat of sex.
Starting at his shoulders, the girl takes her time, tracing down the musculature that ripples on his back. She pauses when she reaches the skull tattoo, lifting up his tangled locks to expose the inky skin. "When did you get this?" she questions, curious, tracing over it with nimble fingers before continuing on. Each line is caressed, each scar followed: she wants to know the story of them all, to memorize the things that make him unique, the silver lines painted on his frame. At last she reaches his lower back, the soap and towel dipping under the water, down and dangerous on the curve of his rear. Her hand slips over a supple cheek, and she wonders how long he will allow it, if he will comment on her brazenness.
And then, on a whim, on a spark of mischief, the girl pinches playfully, blushing crimson and grinning wide.
you're breaking your own heart
