"Mon petit chaton," he purred back, one hand helping the mass of her hair fall over his legs, fingers setting themselves to combing through it gently as he kept to her request, letting his elbow on a pillow behind him so that he could keep stroking the soft underside of her forearm.

"That's a beautiful quote. I miss the days where people could recite it on command; the arts been lost somewhere."

He didn't mind silence, but it did invite his hands to wander, the one in her hair settling in a very loose hold on a handful of her lengths as his fingers moved over to start touching the side of her.

"I don't suppose you know any."

Were his fingers traveling down an inch or two, every few strokes? Boldly, he slipped his hand up under the edge of her shirt, dissatisfied with anything that wasn't the velvet heat of her skin.