"What?" she asks, only partly breathless. "Did you think my legs were just naturally a different colour from the rest of my body?"

Any other smartass remark is lost, however, between the way he sits up and holds onto her, rolling his hips at the same time. Just a few layers of fabric lay between them, a few layers of fabric away from fucking, and Maeve squirms on Steve's bed, prickling with heat, feeling the way her underwear is growing damp, her tights, too, wondering if the first thing they do nine days from now will find her right back here again.

At nearly the same time his lips close around her nipple, Maeve works a hand down between them, fingers curving over the shape of his cock inside his shorts. She can't quite grip him like this, but she can put pressure on him, can give him friction, and besides, she wants to touch him. To feel him. She likes what she's feeling.