Muscles under her skin twitch at his touches, half-ticklish and half-pleasant shock. She runs her hands down his arms, abruptly grateful for whatever quirk makes him prefer to be sleeveless, and traces the subtle outlines of muscle with her fingertips. She doesn’t know how to urge him on, except with more kisses, so she presses forward into his kiss. Into the slow sweetness of it, taking the time to explore the way their mouths fit together.
Percival can feel how her muscles reflexively tense, and release, and react wherever his hands go, and finds himself reacting the same way to hers. Whether it’s chickening out or distraction, he gives up on her skirt, instead reaching around and pulling her closer by the arse. Leaving a hand there, he pushes one up her back under her shirt.
Summer tries to stop the faint whimper that escapes her throat, too late, when he moves his hands to her rear and back. Fingertips dig into his arms, and she forces herself to loosen her grip — not of fear for bruising him, but simply to shift her grip to something else. One hand tangles in the laces of his shirt, pulling at them.