Damon stood there, motionless like a reluctant sentinel, while the door bell tinkled in the background with the arrival of new customers.
The air in the shop was thick with a subtle perfume, which only served to intensify the feeling that he had been dragged into a sensory ambush.
He crossed his arms, leaning casually against the wall next to the fitting room, pretending to examine a shelf of lace gloves that didn't interest him in the slightest.
On the other side of the burgundy velvet curtain, a soft rustle could be heard. Fabrics sliding against skin. The sound of a zipper being pulled slowly, deliberately slowly. His brain, the traitor that it was, began to fill in the gaps with images he knew he shouldn't cultivate.
"Are you still there?" came Morgana's voice, low and provocative, filtered through the thick fabric.
"Where else would I be?" he replied dryly. "Did I flee to the armory?"
A muffled laugh. "Still thinking about swords. How predictable."
