His answer came as movement, in the smooth way he undid the last of the linen, the sound of it like the soft susurrus of fluttering wings. Desmond dipped his head again, chasing the light impression the wraps had left behind with his lips, tasting the salt on her skin when he drew the peak of one pink nipple into his mouth.

In the meantime, his hands kept roaming, one flattening over her hip. The other ghosted the length of her leg to her knee, hooking there for a breathless moment. He wanted to put his hands all over her all at once, very nearly dizzy with the desire to coax more than just murmurs from her. Was this really happening? Was this really him hooking his fingers in Maria's leggings, sitting back briefly to pull them off her, taking each boot with them?