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Harry Percy, Hotspur of the North (
valiantrebel
) wrote
in
tiltingwithlips
2013-04-07 01:29 pm (UTC)
no subject
There is staring. Gazing? Looking. And a sucking-in of breath. If Harry's not the luckiest man in Christendom, he doesn't want to know.
"Help me, Kate." He presses his hand against the warm skin at her waist to turn her toward him. "Or I may be moved to poetry."
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"Help me, Kate." He presses his hand against the warm skin at her waist to turn her toward him. "Or I may be moved to poetry."