"Mm," he answers, watching with undisguised interest as she undresses. His prick throbs at the sight of her, his gaze lingering in ways he hasn't allowed himself for a while. (Not that she would have kept him from it, of course - but it's like staring at a banquet table when you're starving and unable to partake. Profoundly unsatisfying.) "You'll have to work a bit harder than that, I'm afraid."

If you want to kill me is the bit that he doesn't say, naturally. The little note of concern last time he'd flippantly referenced his own death is enough to keep him from it here.

Percy reaches up to his collar and begins unbuttoning his shirt. He hasn't made much more of an attempt at clothing today, having walked around in his shirtsleeves rather than putting on his waistcoat, jacket, and ascot. On a quiet day - the sort when they have their meals brought to them, rather than the other way around - the effort really doesn't seem worth it. "I might have to take issue with tonight's rules, though. I'd like nothing more than to roll you onto your back right now."

He's not going to, but it'd be so much easier to give her breasts the attention they deserve.