The cold struck through the silk and she gasped — the sharp intake of cold metal against warm skin — and then she was sitting on it.
Perched on the top of her own casino's garbage bin in a back alley at two in the morning with a torn dress and a wet bra and no cane and no gun and absolutely nothing in her available repertoire of preparation that had accounted for any of this.
She looked at him.
He looked at her.
The difference in height now — her elevated, her eye level rising to match his, the proximity of their faces with no reaching required for either of them. He stood between her knees. The warm, structural reality of him occupying the space between her legs as casually as though it had always been his.
'This is not happening.'
His hand moved to her chest.
He took her breast in his hand.
