Jon was usually so sweet and awkward with women. Apparently that vanished after sufficient tequila. So, it seemed, did Caoimhe's usual quiet. Though her voice hadn't risen above a whisper, she hadn't stopped talking since Jon had shoved her skirt to the end of the bed. He liked that anxious whine from the back of her throat, but not quite as much as he loved that softly whispered "Please" as her hips rose up against him.
She wanted this. He wanted this. It was a hell of a lot better than spending yet another Valentine's Day alone. Consequences could be worried about in the morning.