I lean in close to you, giggling, and whisper "Guess what I'm wearing!"
You raise an eyebrow as you look me up and down, taking in the sensible and demure charcoal grey coat that ends just above my knees. It's zipped up to just below my chin, because it's chilly out as we walk to the art gallery. You observe my knee-high boots, the bare skin that flirts with your vision between where my boots ends and my coat starts.
"A new skirt? No, a dress," you say.
I shake my head, grinning, and skip ahead of you while you continue calling out guesses.
"You're not even close," I call back over my shoulder, running up the steps into the gallery. It's late, a last-minute decision; the art gallery closes in 40 minutes, barely enough time to make it worth it ... if I planned to look at the art. But I have other plans for you.
You catch up to me, and we enter together, observing the different exhibits. Your hand rests casually against the back of my neck, your thumb rubbing idly against the sensitive skin under my ear. I shiver under your touch and wiggle a little as a breeze sweeps up under my jacket and over my bare legs. The gallery is almost empty, one or two other people here and there. I wander around idly, but slowly working my way in the direction I want to go. I've been by a few times already, so I know where everything is and the busier times of day.
"Brat," you whisper in my ear, biting lightly and laughing when I give a surprised yelp. "Tell me."