He makes a quiet noise as his thumb strokes over her nipple, gently rubbing it to a peak. Just that one simple action is enough to light up the arousal under his skin, thin lines of heat through his abdomen that centre between his legs. She's always had this effect on him, even without ever getting to touch outside of carrying her away from various life-or-death situations over the years, or the occasional hug. He's only had to start thinking about what she would feel like, and it starts. So this is familiar, but new as well; his brain maps the weight and heat of her breast, the softness of the skin, the gorgeous tightness of the nub under his fingers.

He shouldn't do it. The flashes of irritation are enough to tell him he shouldn't do it, because they mean that things aren't OK, don't they? But he can't stop. She's warm, and she's kissing him, and she's already proved how much better he can feel when her hands touch him. It's the wrong reason for going there, but he can't stop.

His arm is pulling again, ushering her over on to his lap. He wants her straddling him, everything up close so he can play.