The time for delicate consideration is slipping fast through her own fingers. She fancies herself in her father's image, cool and calculating, playing a situation to her own advantage, and neglecting to pay heed to the side of her that has long since overtaken this conversation. The part that is selfish and pleasure-seeking, blind to consequence where her myriad of petty lusts are concerned, and, worst of all, the part that is convinced a man this much older than her would be as easily out-witted as her most tried lover.

He nips at her ear; she moans her response, until her shirt is torn open and she can hear the tell-tale clutter of buttons falling to the floor. It's nothing compared to the sudden impact, the roughness with which he's shoved her into place, and perhaps part of her response means to restore some sort of balance in power. "You'll replace that," she hisses, and bites back another hungry sound from her throat. No rewards for manhandling her, she thinks, for about as long as it takes for her to grab at the hand at her thigh, meaning to finally force him to touch her where she needs him most. In spite of her sudden lurch in frustration with him, she is wet and waiting between her thighs, and her fingers dig sharp nails into his hand where she means to take some semblance of charge, even as he has her pinned and half-bared.