It's always so shockingly easy to let herself get lost in Lancelot's mouth. Susan can vaguely remember their first kisses; how she spent so much of the time debating just how much to show off, how much control to take. She almost never thinks about such things with him anymore. Instead she lets him distract her from herself, gives in to the urge to just feel, and touch, and taste. This is no different. There's more she intends to say, but she lets it fall away as his hand slips through her hair.