"You can't steal my raison d'etre, Hemingway..." she joked right back, her hand on his shoulder creeping up to the bare skin of his neck until her fingers could sink into his hair and stroke it down. She liked the visceral feel of it and there was a softness to him which was fucking incredible, considering he was a man's man. "I'm self aware, you can borrow that for the night."
She almost fell for it, the stubborn refusal of his request and was about to laugh and tell him she would find a man who would dip her... and she was in his arms. Safe and quiet, a slight girl in strong arms. Abi gazed up at him and only him until he brought her back up to his chest, her heart hammering its own rhythm. "What do I inspire, then?" she asked with a roughened voice, laden with lust and need.