She could easily accuse Iman of being far too charming for her own good, but something stays her. Charm, she thinks, is rather like a glaze: nice and delicious but not of much real substance, when all is said and done. Goodness knows why, but she doesn't think Iman is just spinning pretty words to flatter her or earn herself favor. It feels sincere, and--and real.
Iman pulls her closer, and the Queen fancies she can feel the other woman's body heat radiating the little distance between them (though perhaps she's just flushed from the dancing and the punch). Her hand shifts a little from Iman's shoulder as they spin across the floor, ending up closer to her neck - just near enough to curl her finger around a wayward lock of Iman's hair.
It's beginning to feel almost too real. Yet she doesn't want to stop.
"I wasn't always a Queen," she replies, lightly teasing, though there's a faint undercurrent of wistfulness. For the first time in as long as she can remember, she wishes she still wasn't - then, she could do--
no subject
Iman pulls her closer, and the Queen fancies she can feel the other woman's body heat radiating the little distance between them (though perhaps she's just flushed from the dancing and the punch). Her hand shifts a little from Iman's shoulder as they spin across the floor, ending up closer to her neck - just near enough to curl her finger around a wayward lock of Iman's hair.
It's beginning to feel almost too real. Yet she doesn't want to stop.
"I wasn't always a Queen," she replies, lightly teasing, though there's a faint undercurrent of wistfulness. For the first time in as long as she can remember, she wishes she still wasn't - then, she could do--
What, exactly?
--whatever. Whatever she wanted.