"You planned this," Joan hisses, glaring angrily at the frosted pane window, as if a look could change the sleet coating everything to harmless snow.
Closer than it should, Moriarty’s laugh tickles across Joan’s shoulder and down her spine. “I’m not sure I’ve ever before been charged with being in control of the weather,” she purrs, tracing the neckline of Joan’s sweater with her perfectly manicured nails, sliding into her hairline, gripping and suddenly violent and strong, pulling until Joan’s knees buckle. She’s pinned there, between frozen glass and hot, hot flesh, but Joan doesn’t moan or beg.
"Pathetic," Joan whispers, refusing to acknowlege her own shaking limbs. She looks, instead, at Moriarty’s dark, bitten lips, and licks hers in anticipation.