Silver-grey skin doesn't betray much as far as rising blood and fluster go, but it's not a signifier Derrica needs. Like his clothing, Loxley's sense of reserve and whatever control he has fast on outward presentation is half-shed, and he lets himself sigh when her hand lifts a way, swallow when her fingers touch his throat.

His hands on her hips press thumbs teasingly into the hollows at her pelvis, activating those pressure points only gently. "That's a path I'd happily follow," he says, and there's a thread of strain in his voice, like his breathing has shifted a few degrees upwards, resting beneath the arm she has braced at his chest.

She might feel the tug at the fastenings of her trousers before even noticing he's shifted his hands at all, a lace pulled free and then taut, as if simply catching her there.