Her cold hand around the hot flesh of his throat produces a sensation under his skin not unlike a shiver--she'll feel it, the tremor in his body, paired with the familiar thrill in his stomach, the lurch of combined fear and great anticipation, of desire

She gives him very little time for disappointment when that hand leaves--the knifetip goes to his throat instead, its razor point pressed just in the centre of his adam's apple, and he has the sense, incredibly, to go very still.

Or at least as still as he ever can. He's already breathing hard, already excited, his gaze flicking up and then off of her again; he wants to look down, to keep his eyes on the knife--but he knows, too, that a wiser act would be to keep those eyes on Genie. But wiser still would be not to look her in the eye.

If there is one thing Foster believes he understands, it is how to mind his place.

If he believes she'd kill him, it doesn't appear to dampen his enthusiasm at all.