( there's a soft scoff, tilting his glass a little as though to eye the amount of liquor left in it; he's tempted to already go to pour in some more. )

Damn, picky bitch. ( it's said with less vitriol than he expects it to be, more filled with mirth than anything. ) In that case...

( a soft click, from her side--his gaze slides up to the partition between them, wondering, but it doesn't take long to locate the culprit, at least as far as he knows. maybe there's another button somewhere else, a 'get out of jail free' button that will have him carried out by the staff, disliked by his companion. but even as he waits a moment, glass pursed up to his lips, nothing happens.

he swallows down what's left, a hiss of breath beyond it, before he's clinking bottles, unscrewing a cap to pour in another shot. )

We'll keep the ribbons, keep the collar, but that's all you get. If you want a safe word, you better be asking now.

( because with another swallow, he's lifting up his free hand to press his closed fist against the button, a gentle depression of it; there's a trill between the rooms, and with a soft whirring, the partition between them starts to fall--along with it comes the murmur of his voice, playful: )

Ten, nine, eight...