The room is a bit dark.
“Well, my little red hen,” the Doctor murmurs, with his face to the wall of his little darkened room, his torso uncovered by the sheet draped over his legs, “…I was only a little tired and now they’ve gone and put me on bed rest. How do you like them apples?”
“Well, my Johnny who’s gone to the fair,” River says, applying her hands to his shirtless back and rubbing a nicely buttered circumference into his shoulder blades, “… you know what they say. When life provides apples, one generally makes pie. And with the leftover lemon, who knows? It might be a bit sour, but you’ve always liked things tart. Do you want me to go lower?”
The Doctor nods a light, frivolous no with his hair, sinks a huge breath into his lungs, then heaves it out again. “I do so like a good metaphor. But don’t forget the crumbly topping of awesome! Let’s see, it takes butter, brown sugar, flour, some of that lemon you mentioned… what are you wearing?”
River looks down at herself and her eyes slip half-closed over her own form as her hands slide down a little further toward the small of his spine.
Her shoulders are bare, unsleeved; burgundy straps race cross country like wildflower street cars along her upper back. More burgundy flails in a miniature cowl-neck still life around her breasts, a tease of thick spa towel. The rest of the negligee continues down her musculature, tightening in silky ripples along the canals of her pectorals like a gondola through Venice.