Loxley chooses not to help her find it. Or does. It's a matter of perspective.

Regardless, she kisses him, and he kisses back, and he loosens the lacings further, far enough that his hand, warm and sure, slips in between the fabric and her skin. His palm applies more pressure than his fingers, which only touch and tease as he feels her, in that moment.

And demonstrates his ability to listen, as the next time the kiss breaks for the purposes of breathing, or the little realignments that occur, he nudges her jaw up and side to lay a whiskery kiss at that spot, high up on her throat. It's not as sweet as they've started, ardent and warm, head lifted while his other hand, free now, strokes back through her hair.