More than anything

The way his breath hitches is its own reward -- every slight falter or fracture in his composure a treat that she knows is reserved, by and large, just for her. Still, his hands are maddeningly gentle as he eases down the waistband of her trousers, and it's all she can do not to squirm, or to tell him to just yank the bloody things off before she soaks through them.

It helps when he turns her around and takes her by the chin, and she hums approvingly into the kiss. Her own hands busy themselves with untucking his shirt, and then sliding into the warm space between the fabric and his skin, pulling herself flush against him. It's wonderful while it lasts, and better still when he lifts her easily onto the counter, situating himself between her thighs.

Granted, her trousers are still mostly on (to say nothing of his), and she fleetingly recalls Sweeney's rather lewd remark about easy access. Skirts could simply be shoved aside; this will be a little more complicated. Still, she can't help but appreciate how easy it is to wrap her legs around his waist, and how little there actually is between them. "A bit less busy than skirts," she murmurs, giving him a slight squeeze with her thighs for emphasis. "I could get used to this."