[The moment - he lets it go on as long as he can, but all of it ends up colliding and pushing him to move. Her dress beneath his hand and the urge to slide it lower, to feel the gather of her skirts and know he's that much closer to drawing them up her thighs, the sounds and chirps, the close heat of the night pressing in, the scent of her hair and dew and everything around them, and he could swear he already smells the damp sheen of her sweat but that is probably him, wanting.

And he is - wanting - though he's not paying attention. His body speaks for him well enough, though, and he presses against her, insistent, but not quite pushy. Not yet.]