"You look like a vagabond."

"You're one to talk." He strikes his narrow eyes directly into yours, crookedly smirking.

As if he were painting a picture on your skin with eyes—with a scorching hot paintbrush, with fire as its paint.

Hovering at the mounds on your chest and the perky points visible through the semi-transparent shirt.

Lowering slowly, down to your exposed legs, where the cottony fabric drapes slightly, covering your pink panties, and lower thighs shown.