[ The way he's looking at her, intense and wetting his lips, hand still on the small of her back, she feels like he's going to press her up against a wall and suck face, a phrase she's only seen happen in the recesses of the bar or alleys late at night. She never understood it before, but right now, she almost wishes he would.

Except then he makes that comment, and she has that dual reaction again. Some part of her wants to pin him to a wall, let fire burn in her eyes and ask how dare he accuse her of being in a mood after what he did. And the other part nearly moans with want, like they are magnets and he knows how to turn up the attraction. She knows she should just leave him here, walk far far away, but she also knows she's going to be looking everywhere for him, restless and needy and her own hand doesn't feel like it's going to take care of this. ]

Oh? And what mood am I in? You're lucky, you know. I don't let very many people touch me without asking.

[ She rolls her hips, closing the small space between them, and grins up at him, knowing his eyes are still tracing her neck and her breasts and her ass. Then he talks again, and her eyes narrow. ]

Oh, good enough for you, am I? I could just leave you here, you know.

[ It's an empty threat. But he doesn't need to know that. Even if it does sting to think he's more interested in her friends than her.

Which is absurd. He shouldn't be near any of them. She should go. She should-- ]

Make it up to me.