Between that attraction, and the drink, and the exhaustion, and her genuine craving to thi k of nothing, she doesn't stand a chance. She doesn't resist at all but reaches to pull him closer, too, when he draws her in and she's meeting him every bit as enthusiastically until she has to pull away to breathe.

"Don't you rip my fucking clothes," she warns - old practicality, hardwon and imprinted - but she resolves it for them by shrugging her outer shirt the rest of the way off, then stripping her tank top out of the way after. She's not wearing a bra, and there's nothing shy about the way she reaches for his shirt, too.

Then she's kissing him again, drawing her legs under her so she can push up closer to him.