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Her fingers curl around his, wrapped around the delicate stem of a wine glass. She gives him a coy look, eyes warm and amused. Her lips, reddened and shimmering in the candlelight, are quirked up in the half-smile she gives so often.
He might be enticed if she wasn’t keeping him from his wine.
She strokes the backs of his fingers with her thumb. He looks away from her face to the slender fingers holding his hand steady. He may stare at her hand on his for a bit too long because she laughs, a low, warm sound in the space between them.
“Are you drunk, my love?”
“Perhaps I would be, if you would be so kind as to allow me my wine,” he says but the words are gentle and he can feel himself smiling in response to her.
She laughs again, tugging gently at the wine glass; he releases it to her and she sets it aside.
“That may be for the best,” he admits, slipping his arms around her, to pull her close and to use her to steady himself.
“May be?” She asks wryly even as she gamely helps him maintain his balance.
He leans down touching his forehead to hers and, moved by his affection, she forgets whatever other teasing words were on her tongue.