She's quick on the draw. With a deftness that stirs thoughts of an old tablecloth trick, she wrangles his jeans from his body, ridding him of his socks while she's at it, and in a blink she's straddling his lap.

She presses her hips against his, enjoying the moment for a few seconds more. She's beginning to warm. Slowly, sucking on his lip, she pulls back.

Arms around his neck, thighs firm around his hips; she looks like she has something to say, but the words don't come. She has a lot to say, point of fact. All she does, however, is sweep her gaze over his face, eyes the color of twilight. Underneath the bravado, the lust, is wild vulnerability.

She takes each of his wrists, guiding his hands up her body; brushing her breasts, her stomach — stopping at the four brass buttons on her vest. She holds them there, mutely asking him to do for her what she did for him.

Undress her.

Touch her.

Make her feel something good.