The first evidence that she's enjoying this is the similar-sounding chuckle she breathes against his lips, her fingers finding the edges of the shirt as they inevitably come undone, thumbs pressing along the outside as she runs her hands back up, knuckles barely brushing over his abdomen, his chest. When she opens her eyes - not fully, just halfway, just enough to make out the shape of his face from this angle, letting his expression swim into focus. There's a precipice they're both hovering on, waiting to see just who will break, who will fall and drag the other into falling after, and the first step certainly involves determining who, exactly, is going to wind up on top when they eventually make it over to the bed. "There's a clasp, here," she admits, turning around just enough to expose the place where it closes at the nape of her neck, the rest of the dress curving open to reveal twin shoulderblades and the arch of her spine until it joins again below the small of her back. She can feel his breath on her skin, warm and anticipating, and she won't hide the shiver that rises, starting low and spiraling up until her shoulders lift and she presses backward into his hands, his body.