This is meditative, in a way. Lancelot's hands light a fire across Susan's skin as he runs them over her body, and Susan finds herself enjoying letting that fire simmer, but not build. She's kissing him eagerly now, matching his easy pace, but with an enthusiasm for the taste of him. Now that she's less preoccupied with what she's doing, she can acknowledge he also has skill at this, and she's glad she's sitting in his lap instead of standing, weak-kneed, clutching at his (lovely) shoulders.

She feels them now, his shoulders, firm under her hands. She lets one hand drift down his back, feeling the warmth of him through his shirt, and the sturdiness below that.