[It's a thin line that divides the two urges... The half that wants to indulge her at her request with his lips to hers, his hands up her curves and her wrists pinned to a bed. And then that other half that wants to see her blood sink into and stain that long pink hair, those eyes to glaze sightless and for those thighs to tremble as her body convulses; her heart in his hand.
It'd such a thin line. But both can stem from a kiss.
His hand raises slowly, fingertips skimming up and along her neck. It's not a tremble, nor is it a shake of unsteadiness in his fingers, but it's gone once they settle soundly to her skin. It's control, a resistance that keeps his thumb from doing anything but brush against the center of her throat.] Say please.