"But you're good enough," a whisper, a liepromise.
His left hand creeped forward, the threatening hiss of starched duvet fading in its wake. Redlacquer nails came to rest in breached distance -- fragile fragments that separated their bodies, but hardly the broken moments in each's absence. He looked up at Liam, the angle and advantage of those skyward glances lending the whore an innocence he simply couldn't have. With a softening of the acrid edges of a rasp -- a seductive, honeydripped tenor -- his back arched further, adding to a simple suggestion all manner of subtext and sin.