Grinding against each other like this, fully clothed, seems all at once so juvenile and yet so deliciously teasing, almost naughty. Her throat goes dry at the utterly worshipful way he breathes her name, shivering at his plead. Fire licks along her spine when he sucks her finger into his mouth, eyelids fluttering at the sensation and gaze peeled on those lips wrapped around the slim digit. She gasps sharply when he pushes his hand under her waistband, his warm, calloused palm feeling like a brand against her bare skin, her pulse jumping at her neck. The words husked at her ear draw another helpless moan from her, shuddering violently at the sexy, sensual images that crowd her head at his pleads.

Her boldness from moment ago wavers just slightly despite her persistent arousal and desire. This isn't a fantasy, this is reality; this is something that cannot be taken back once done. But isn't this what they both so obviously want? However, it's not that that's holding her back, a briefest flash of vulnerability making an appearance in her heavy-lidded gaze. The fantasy he's describing is so meticulous, so detailed; but she's not this corset-clad vixen Tony conjured up to sate his lust -- at least she doesn't think so. (Little does she know.) Is she enough like this, as is? She doesn't want to disappoint him.

"I don't have a corset, though," she whispers, lips quirking faintly as she masks her uncertainty with playfulness, lifting her hand to comb her fingers through his hair.