It takes a monumental effort to do what she's told. Which - given what Teren had watched her say to their commanders - no doubt could be appreciated by the present company for the rare occasion it turned out to be.

Not that it was endearing her too said company, as she's split between breathless prays when her fingers, her tongue, dance close, and swearing worse than a Whitechapel doxie when they move away again. The only thing that can't be helped no matter how she tries to keep still is the physical twitch when Teren strikes sensitive nerves just too well. Her legs jolting where they're pressed down, her fingers twisting in, all of her breath driven out of her lungs before she can desperately suck it back in.

"Damn you," it'd be far more serious a curse probably if she wasn't wet against Teren's tongue, and utterly unable to stop how the end of the word turns into a moan of sheer frustration, bubbling out of the back of her throat.