Susan's eyelashes flutter again at his touch. For all that she has railed against gentleness in front of Lancelot multiple times now, she finds that she likes how gentle he is very much. It is a queer feeling, to realize this: she thought herself insensate to softness any more.
But just kissing! This, too, is something she must grapple with. She hasn't left off at just kissing anyone since she was young1 and inexperienced - save, perhaps, an idling afternoon with Miriam the day after one of their private assignations, perhaps last summer. She's a goal-oriented woman, and while the end-point of that goal has evolved from feeling good to feeling anything over the past few months, the outcome has largely remained consistent for some years now.
She likes Lancelot, though. It surprises her, a little, the ways in which she likes Lancelot. Despite her ability to get along easily with them, she doesn't often make genuine friends with men. Certainly she rarely opens up to them, honest and full-throated. And she suspects she might even like him in the other way, too. She's sincerely interested in seeing where this could go, and she knows enough of his story (partly from him; partly from his legend) that she can guess what sort of things he might want to tell her about.
She finds that, to her surprise, she rather fiercely does not want to be one of his mistakes. This must mean, then, that he cannot be one of her stopgaps.
Susan considers how she can phrase her thoughts, flirtatiously and lightly enough that it makes him laugh and kiss her again. She decides, at the last minute, to go for honesty instead.
"I think that is good. I - there are things I should probably tell you first, too." She drags her gaze up to meet his head-on; flushing, she clarifies, "I have been called oversexed, in the past, and rightfully so. That is not the only thing, or the whole picture, and I am not ashamed of it, but it lies at the heart of much I would say. Kissing alone, today, is... smart. It's good. I would like that very much."
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But just kissing! This, too, is something she must grapple with. She hasn't left off at just kissing anyone since she was young1 and inexperienced - save, perhaps, an idling afternoon with Miriam the day after one of their private assignations, perhaps last summer. She's a goal-oriented woman, and while the end-point of that goal has evolved from feeling good to feeling anything over the past few months, the outcome has largely remained consistent for some years now.
She likes Lancelot, though. It surprises her, a little, the ways in which she likes Lancelot. Despite her ability to get along easily with them, she doesn't often make genuine friends with men. Certainly she rarely opens up to them, honest and full-throated. And she suspects she might even like him in the other way, too. She's sincerely interested in seeing where this could go, and she knows enough of his story (partly from him; partly from his legend) that she can guess what sort of things he might want to tell her about.
She finds that, to her surprise, she rather fiercely does not want to be one of his mistakes. This must mean, then, that he cannot be one of her stopgaps.
Susan considers how she can phrase her thoughts, flirtatiously and lightly enough that it makes him laugh and kiss her again. She decides, at the last minute, to go for honesty instead.
"I think that is good. I - there are things I should probably tell you first, too." She drags her gaze up to meet his head-on; flushing, she clarifies, "I have been called oversexed, in the past, and rightfully so. That is not the only thing, or the whole picture, and I am not ashamed of it, but it lies at the heart of much I would say. Kissing alone, today, is... smart. It's good. I would like that very much."
1Thus sayeth the twenty-two year old.