Damon's hand slid along the curve of Morgana's waist, his fingers finding the clasp of the dress she still wore from dinner with the Council. The fabric was rich and heavy, embroidered with the symbols of Arven—a constant reminder of who she was and everything she carried. But beneath his hands, it was only an obstacle.
His fingers worked at the fastening with a patience that contrasted with the restrained urgency burning between them. The dress gave way, opening along her back, and Damon pushed the fabric aside, exposing her warm skin beneath the thin layer of her inner corset.
Morgana arched involuntarily when his hands touched her. Her own fingers gripped his shoulders, feeling the tense muscles beneath his thin shirt.
"You are… surprisingly skilled with only one hand," she breathed, her voice a hoarse whisper against his mouth.
"Practice," he murmured in return, his lips tracing a line from hers to her jaw before moving down the curve of her neck. "And motivation."
