Susan is, as ever, preternaturally quiet outside of the tiny, natural sounds her body makes: the soft, slick noise of her parting her lips, the puff of air that comes with a heavier exhale, the rustling of her dress as she presses closer to Lancelot. It's a learned quiet that she's never bothered to unlearn. Her movements, however, are a studied contrast: She's trying so hard not to shift against him, to make this more than what they agreed, so she's satisfying herself -- while reinforcing a careful, minuscule distance -- by running her hands up and down his arms, his back, his shoulders. At first she presses her jaw to his mouth, relishing in the feeling of his lips; then, she grows impatient and twists her head, capturing his mouth in a fiercer kiss.