In that moment, she just wanted to hear his voice - that accent - anything he said, any noise he made, anything unmarred by the slightly artificial tones of the translator.

"When I can think straight." The words were wobbly, broken up by a laugh that turned into breathless gasps, and it was a miracle she got the last word out coherently at all, as her hips rolled against him, lifting up partway only to buck back down into his fingers. Her motions weren't particularly smooth - there was a clumsy sort of eagerness to every move she made at this point.

It wasn't just the pleasure of it - though that in itself had her breathless, helpless to stifle any of the gasps and soft cries spilling from her. The hungry, near to desperate feeling that even this - him deep inside her, his mouth on hers and their hands on each other - was barely close enough to him; the way nothing else existed then, not in any of her senses, but him; the sudden and completely natural notion that she might really be falling in love with him.

While his movements grew slower and more careful, hers sped up in turn. Her hips slapped down against his, and there was a rather uncoordinated jerkiness to the way she moved, the ardent need of someone not quite sure yet how to move, or what would feel good.