"The fuck would I want with a vampire's cold-ass tits," the words are furiously muttered half-beneath her breath, but it's impossible to hide the heat that rises in her. Her tawny-brown cheeks are suffused with an incriminating flush of red. Impossible, now Lenore has gone ahead and said it, for Gideon's eyes not to skim over the plunging neckline once again. She can see the generous curve of them in tantalising detail through the lacy, keyhole detailing, the gentle rise and fall of them that matches the rhythm of Lenore's breathing--

--it's just the briefest of glances before her gaze falls away and she pretends to be intensely occupied by the business of eating, but enough of one to make her think fuuuuuuck and for her breath to hitch just slightly. Withered and marked by the plague - all, of course, aside from herself - there hadn't been a sight like that in all of Drearburh.

She's grateful for the distraction of both sustenance and instruction, so remains silent as Lenore explains the game (if only because her mouth is otherwise occupied). It seems simple enough - she's not a complete moron despite what she would have people believe - and now that she has a distraction more complicated than counting the fucking stones in the walls, she's feeling quietly keen.

"Yeah, okay. I think I've got it," she says, and this time her voice lacks its earlier bite, sounding halfway towards agreeable.