Askaree Bint Bahar

Dear god he was such a priss, fiddling with his shirt all pissy-like over a little spilled (okay... maybe flung) oatmeal. She maintained, inwardly, that she had indeed imparted upon him a generosity in dispelling the congealed goop from his morning routine. No one who possessed teeth and therefore the option of consuming literally anything else should ever even consider eating that coagulated grain-bile. Though the mess she had wrought with and instead of his breakfast was proving a source of devilish gaety for the young Egyptian woman as she perched herself upon a nearby chair only to gaze on in unabashed amusement at her host's attempts to rid himself of the fodder scourge.

Amusement yielded to arousal for a moment marked by its brevity as Spencer moved to remove his shirt only to unveil... fuck. Fucking men and their fucking undershirts ruining all of the fucking fun. He should count himself fortunate that this particular bit of thoughtful whimsy culminated in no more than the exasperated rolling of a pair of darkly alluring brown eyes. "There are a fair few other ways to get me to sleep that would have been loads more fun," she purrs, eyeing her counterpart with a bold amalgamation of barbed jest and lustful hunger. "And if you pull that bullshit again, Spencer, I swear I'll ruin a whole lot more than your revolting breakfast." The simper does not wilt upon her lips even a hair's breadth, though it would be a rather catastrophic folly for her gentleman friend to think her farce in her promise. He was, after all, toeing a rather finely-drawn line and flirting with a backlash that Askaree was certain he could not contend with. As it stood she had already offered up far more mercy than was her custom, wholly to the merit of her physical attraction to him and the brutish pleasure she gleaned from toying with him as she did.

Spencer's abrupt repositioning causes the devilish imp to straigthen somewhat in her chair, the arc of a brow pitched ever higher at his presumed concern for her wellbeing. How... sweet. With serpentine poise does she rise from her perch to meander a few steps towards him, the sway of her gossamer locks very nearly exposing what last bit of her anatomy was left to the imagination, her facade coalescing into something almost genuinely perturbed as she places a single hand to her cheek. "Now that you mention it, I do feel quite flushed... maybe you should check my temperature."

Yes, Spencer, please do.