Utterly enrapt of heedless now of the world around them, Janaece slipped one arm around the back of Mideala's tiny waist, massaging the supple skin there with her palm. Her other hand trailed down the elf's cheek while she kissed her, open-mouthed, tongue decadently exploring like a long-lost lover or like a rogue hunting for treasure in a warm cave.<br/><br/>The back of Janaece's falling hand ever so lightly brushed the bosom of Mideala's poets shirt, then her flat bare expanse of stomach. It came to rest on her thigh, kneading the lovely muscle. "Mideala..." Janaece groaned, her voice with a fiery huskiness somewhat different than the fey flirtation from earlier, much less self-restrained or self-possessed now.<br/><br/>~~<br/><br/><br/>Cicuta giggled wildly, and she threw out her arms in a theatrical gesture, rolling gracefully over the man's leg and then twisting sideways from her front to her back upon the marble floor. Her fingers danced up his leg as it reached to her chest, then down again, as if receiving its plant against her chest like a hostess welcoming houseguests. "My!" she giggled. "But the courtship rituals about here are apparently so<em>unique</em>. So...forward. 'Tis refreshing."<br/><br/>She hummed, and her fingers played against her leg. Within her momentarily-clenched hands, small green vine tendrils sprouted from between the ball-fisted fingers, and snaked and caressed up about her captor's leg. "Does my Lord desire a dance, or do his intentions...<em>lie</em>, let us say...elsewhere?"