Before his heart could jump in his throat at that tone, preempting too much thought given to it or even the next breath she took with the 's' still on her tongue, because there wasn't much more thought to give it, after all, she had said that to him before, hadn't she? Before she had to say it again, Tony fervently complied, sucking that next breath from her lips, just the heel of his hand touching her jaw though his fingers curved around her cheek, like he was hyperaware of every print he left on her polished surface. When it dropped it followed naturally the perfect s-curve she made, pulled against him with the other hand flat with splayed fingers against her back, all calculable angles from the tilt of her head, the heel of his hand on her throat, to the push of her chest, his fingers still stiff and just the side of his hand curving with her breast bone, the twist of her waist, his hand flattening out to finally land on the swell of her hip. Four anchor points, and his hand only settled for a moment before it was finding another, tips of his fingers then, skimmed over her lap and down to her knee to lift it across his, a new angle, sharper, anchored one, two, three.
All the while he complied, his tongue not quite pushing and not quite teasing but coaxing, to suck on hers with eyes closed and barely a mind for breath until his fingers were drifting back up her thigh. Milk soaked skin, perfect soft, not like silk or velvet but butter, had him finally pulling for grounding breath, palm burning and holding possessively with her skirt bunched against his wrist, and still sharing the same air he started, "I want--"
He had to stop himself, eyelids just fluttering but squeezing closed again, to reenvision the phrase. Finding those words-- 'I want', 'I need', 'I love'-- sticky and binding and heavy until he was around her, and then they were all clawing to get out. "Have dinner with me," he said instead, eyes finally opening, nose touching hers.