The response slows her, but mostly because it is, in spite of all the polite restraint he has shown thus far, still not wholly what she expects. What she knows is single-mindedness, a goal set firm between her thighs, and any invitation a most welcome one, perhaps even the sole purpose. By now, he should have his hand up her skirt, he should pretend that a hand on her breast is a happy accident and not an intentional fondling. Her open invitation should have lead to nothing else, but he still holds to that restraint.

Not disinterested, she notes, from the way his eyes do not leave hers unless they must, or the way he has leaned in toward her. There is that gentle touch to her cheek and that hunger with which he'd answered her kisses. Why he must be so thoroughly impossible to read, she does not know.

"I want you." She presses against him, and in a quick and sudden shift, she's come to straddle him, so that her next kiss needs no fragile leaning, but can be offered with the whole of her body against his. "I want you a good deal more than I care for politeness."