Her teasing has always been dangerous in a way swords never are, slipping past whatever defences he thinks he has managed to build, and now she is looking at him with that particular softness that makes him remember the first time they ever crossed this line, when neither of them quite knew what they were doing, and he was terrified of hurting her, terrified of wanting her too much.
Now there is no mistaking the wanting.
Her kiss to his collarbone leaves him shivering, embarrassingly so, and he closes his eyes for half a second as if that might help him gather himself. It does not. Nothing seems capable of gathering him where she is concerned.
He thinks of the absurdity of it, too, because Tempest has never seemed particularly interested in saving him before. If anything, William suspects the god has a sense of humour and has deliberately placed Spirit in his path simply to see how long it takes before William realises he has no hope whatsoever.
"Then I suppose I'm doomed," he says, quieter now, and the admission carries more affection than resignation.
His hand begins its adventure through and under her skirts. Beneath all the teasing, beneath the reckless confidence she wears so easily now, he can still see the Lady from their first time together, the one who had looked at him as though she had discovered some secret door into a life she had never imagined for herself. Except now, she knows exactly what she wants, and knowing that does something profound to him.
The realisation is not new, but moments like this make it impossible to ignore. Fingers find her heat through the fabric, lightly touching, teasing. He can feel how wet she is, just how much she wants him.
"You'll be the death of me one day," he tells her, but the smile he gives her makes it obvious that he would not have it any other way.
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