"And I will touch you more," he tells her, and it's a promise breathed against her lips, breathed with how much he wants to be touching her more right now. For a few moments, he thinks, maybe this morning, she would have sobered up by morning, and if she has a hangover, endorphin would help - rationalisation to justify the very vivid image of his head between her thighs, but he forces himself to dismiss it, because she's right there, in his shirt, and she wants him, so he has to dismiss it. He's glad they're whispering, or it would be all too obvious how husky his voice is. "There's nothing wrong with making out, but we won't want to stop."