Toes curling in his boots, the Brucolac gave a pleased shudder, gripping her waist with the hand not at the nape of her neck and hauling her body flush to his. He leant his head to once side, letting her nip and worry at his neck to her heart's content.

"Not the act itself," he said, a strain of wicked, teasing humour audible in his voice, "one gets to a certain age and stops worrying about how and what if and so on, but the fumblings and forays around it? The etiquette? The multitasking? You ask a lot—of a creaking old corpse."

All mock self-deprecating, while his fingers dug deeper into the knots of muscle at the base of her skull, and his other hand dropped from her waist to spread out on her thigh.