Again, Derrica considers: among Loxley's many charms, she is growing especially fond of his hands.

The pressure is good, even if it isn't enough. Derrica makes a low, hitching sound against his mouth, automatically encouraging as her hips cant down against his hand. It breaks into a soft moan when Loxley's mouth passes from her mouth to her neck. There's a limit to how far she can move her hands without closing the space between them in such a way that would be unhelpful to his efforts.

"That's so good," comes as a murmur, even as her fingers dig hard into his shoulders. It's praise as much for the application of his mouth as it is for the placement of his hand. "But it's not going to help me get these trousers off."

Hers or his? Both? All of it necessitates leaving his lap, a more unappealing prospect now than it had been minutes before.