Susan responds in kind. It's good, to have some sense of direction. To know that Lancelot only wants this, for now, is freeing: she lets go of thoughts of impressing him with her skill, or guiding this in a direction she'll prefer, and instead focuses on the feeling of his hands on her, and his mouth against her own, and the feeling of his hair brushing her arm. The sun is warm at her back; Lancelot is warm at her front. Aided by the brightness of his smile, the chill of her permafrost recedes a few more inches.