He felt the tendril wrap around his wrist and catch on itself, then the delicious pull as its mistress turned him around to face her. As swiftly as he was turned, the tendril left his arm, the kiss of fire where it had been singing sweet bliss to him. Next it flicked out, fleeting little cuts that barely kissed his skin as the shirt he wore fell to its jealousy, leaving his chest bare and the tatters draped around his waist.
"Mon couer," the mistress with the stinging tendril he craved murmured, and Gomez felt the solid flare of his passion, unwilling to be denied.
"Tish..." he moaned. "French..."
The tendril lashed out three times, kisses of stinging purity along his chest in such precise patterns.
"Silence, mon couer, or we begin again," she said, with that slight crook of her lips.
"Oh si si si!" he proclaimed in anticipation.