ever marching as to war

Natalia can't help herself the bright laugh that escapes her when she feels the tree at her back. She knows James well enough, loves him well enough that his ardor is not unexpected, even if the setting most certainly is, but his hand is splayed possessively at her hip, the other snaking with purpose beneath the hem of her dress, and Natalia is rapidly losing what care she has for modesty.

It's almost nothing, James' knuckles a scant few inches higher than her knee, yet in those few inches Natalia reads everything, pulling her mouth away from his with a breathless, oh god, giggle. "James," she murmurs, hooking her ankle around his. She doesn't care how ridiculous these American carnivals are, they are Natalia's favorite thing.