Even with the cruel avoidance of her lips, Mari's kisses still feel good. Her breath paints a new layer of heat over Dia's already-flushed skin, mingling with her own sighs and soft gasps.

Dia likes having Mari close, the fabric of her blouse humming with friction as their bodies brush and rub together. She likes guessing at the trajectory of her mouth, even likes her predictions betrayed -- there's a unique tinge of delight that runs down her spine whenever Mari kisses her harder, or lingers longer in place than she'd thought.

And then there's Mari doing absolutely nothing, just staring up at her with that cheshire smile of hers. Dia could just about pop with the urge to kiss her, or slap her, or possibly both, but she refrains -- because she can tell when she's being tested, and she has no intention of failing.

Mari, the most whimsical, fancy-free person she knows -- can just as easily turn devastatingly deliberate. It never fails to incite Dia's resolve, fill her with the raw urge to meet her head-on.

(And, she'll never admit-- make her weak in the knees, too.)

"Mari-san," she murmurs out, the tip of her tongue slipping past her lips to wet them. She won't close the distance. She refuses.

"Kettle's boiling."