It dawned on Orsino, after she'd moved closer and put his hand to her hip, that the solution to being too warm already was not to grab another person's arm, nor was it to start hugging. As a matter of fact, it appeared to be making things much worse. Yet, he didn't move away, and if anything he scooted closer until he was basically resting up against her.
"Hey, Mean Lady, don't need the crate down here," blurted Orsino, the whisky sending another wave of warmth over him, the prickling of an itch in his back returning. Their faces were inches apart by now, and he stopped laughing. This seemed a familiar situation, probably because things like this had happened before. And from what Orsino could recall through the muddle of his current thoughts, there was one logical step after this.
Noting the smell of whisky again, he twisted his neck and closed the gap between their faces, bringing his mouth to hers experimentally. Just as he suspected, there was the taste of the drink, but a warm softness that was much more pleasing than the cold lip of a bottle. Orsino pushed against her with a bit more force, the hand on her hip moving to the indent of her waist.