Liz rides out the movement, still straddling him. She pulls away from his mouth -- which is a feat in and of itself -- but it's only to kiss his chin, his neck, the hollow of his throat; lips marking a determined trail down his chest, his tight stomach, lower.

(He told her once that he wished he could change how he looked, for her.

In moments like these, Liz is reminded of just how much she wouldn't change a thing about the way he looks.)

Her hair tickles along his skin as she shifts her weight and keeps moving down; she nudges his knees so she can settle between them. She drags her lower lip across his waist to his hip, which she nips. Her eyes flick up and she watches him through her bangs, for a second, as she lets her hands come to rest on his hips, hot thumb stroking the spot that she just gently bit.

She settles still lower and she --



presses her cheek against his high inner thigh, and plants a kiss there. It's impossible to say from sight, as her hair tumbled into the way when she bent her head, but her mouth is tangibly quirked up against his skin.

She's teasing.