She was glad nothing had happened on the train, that her stupid heartbroken drunken attempt had been so neatly swerved by him, because that wouldn't have been right and it actually meant a lot that he hadn't let anything happen. This was infinitely better, and so far it seemed to be worth the wait. She'd thought about it quite a lot, another form of subtle self-destruction in his absence, but now he was here, so close and so strangely wonderful.
She moaned again, slightly louder and more desperate when his hand moved under her t-shirt, then at the slightest encouragement she was in his lap, pressing him against the back of the sofa and kissing him harder still, as finally she worked out she could probably use both hands to try and undo his shirt buttons. Her free hand joined the other, stroking against the fabric for a moment before she fumbled blindly with the fastenings. Jesus, what was wrong with her? It shouldn't be this difficult to undo a button, surely?