That brush of lips, so fleeting in nature, felt closer to tendrils of fire licking at him, the liquid movement of her hips against him hitching his breath, drawing a small sound from him without leave.

The lighting here, in this deserted lounge was unlike the stark brightness of the corridors, casting long shadows off the angles of her cheekbones, when his eyes adjusted to it. Stunning, he thought almost distantly as his thumb followed the sharpness of bone upwards, not quite exploration, not quite caress, but somewhere in between.

"I don't even know your name," he heard himself say.