Her blouse was light, buttoned about halfway, and hid more bruising on her torso - none so dramatic as the strangulation marks, and none of it much holding her back. There was lace beneath, besides, a bra that functioned more as a polite suggestion than anything practical, and Ilde rolled her shoulders to let the blouse slip off her wrists behind her; the more skin bared, the more it became apparent she was just this side of aglow.

"That or, really, just far too fucking tall-" which she was cheerfully not ruling out, now that she'd been given leave to take advantage of said height by treating him like a climbing frame with buttons to be undone.