She's enjoying all the sounds he makes, but the groan and shuddering breath make the heat curl tightly in her gut. She shifts a little on his lap, straddling him, the kilt riding up higher on her thighs. There's nothing between him and the most intimate parts of her body now except the linen of his own kilt.

She is VERY pleased with herself at coaxing such a thing from him, and applies a hand to each of his collarbones, the touch firmer, more lingering.

"Like your hand on my breast," she breathes against his lips during a short break for air. There's also a bit of vicious satisfaction that she's giving Skellig what those young men wanted for THEIR pleasure and will never have.