“Okay,” she replied simply, shrugging as she leaned over and did just that. Thatcher bit, perhaps a bit too roughly, into the deltoid muscle of his arm closest to her. “Now what?”
“You... bit me.” Maybe he had quite literally been asking for it, but that doesn’t stop the surprise nor his incredulous statement of the obvious. As a bit of payback, Samson leans over to lightly dig his fingers into her side to find out just how ticklish she is. “Now is when you say sorry so the tickle gods consider showin’ mercy,” he sing-songs out, moving a bit closer to hold her down by the shoulder with his free hand to ensure the attack can continue.