It was his turn to laugh, sharp and short. "Damned if I care," he muttered, already pressing his mouth to her neck for his next kiss. The only thing he wanted at the moment was her. Lights on, lights off; a dressing room or the manager's office, the catwalks or the stage itself made little difference to him when he had the taste of her on his tongue and the feeling of her fingers on his back.

"Don't leave any marks," he murmured as he turned his hands to her body. He caressed her breast with one hand (it felt as though she'd skipped the corset when she'd changed, in favor of something lighter; his heart rate picked up). He slid his other hand down along her waist, over her hip and to her thigh, which he pulled towards him until they were right up against one another. He was overdressed for this; formal attire to attend a show's opening night came with too many accessories that stood in the way her. A watch chain that had to be undone before he could take off his vest, cufflinks preventing his sleeves from just peeling off if he unbuttoned his shirt, a cravat to be removed — he wanted his skin on hers and every layer that stood between them frustrated him.

Oz leaned into her and pressed another eager kiss to her mouth as his fingers fumbled with his cufflinks. It was clear it would take more time to undress him than it would to undress her, so the best he could do was offer a suitable distraction while his hands were occupied.

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