“I think I was making you wish it was tomorrow night.” Summer slips her fingers under the edges of his shirt again, and turns her head to kiss the skin.
Another laugh passes his lips and he leans into the kiss, his hand grabbing at her tunic, feeling the cool of the silk against his burning flesh. “I can hold out,” he tells her.
Sincerely, she says, “Of course you can,” and then proceeds to leave light kisses all down his chest, glancing up at his face between every few with her eyes twinkling. “Don’t tear my dress, Mordred,” she murmurs.