He ran past as stealthily as a miniature man in elfin shoes.
His slight body slithered on the leather seat like fine silk on a geisha. Careful of gossip, with his shoulders at attention and his hands folded loosely in his lap, he delicately laid out the facts.
The nascent masculinity of Robin's neighbor peeked her interest; as did the chilling complicity of his father. Her voyeurism was catnip, its throbbing anticipatory character an antidote to the debilitating heat of consummation.