She sits up, right as he puts his mouth under her ear, as he feels the pulse there, before he can do anything else, before he can explore any part of her body, soft and warm under his palm.
She sits up, and announces, "I have an idea."
He groans, not quite as inwardly as he would like, for which he has nothing to blame but himself and his intake of whisky. She ignores this, and bends over the side of the bed, rummaging below and making noises of frustration that he'd normally find amusing, but there's little room for coherence inside his brain and he was interrupted, so the buzz of annoyance he'd also normally dismiss bursts forth in: "Utsumi, can't it wait?"
"No," she proclaims, and almost falls off the side of the bed; he only rescues her by holding onto her hip. She hauls herself back up with his help and then they stare at each other for an awkward second before he asks, "Was that worth it?"
"I don't know yet. Sit still." She has something in her hands, and he backs away before he can even register what it is. She scoots closer, her knees touching his own, and says, "I said, sit still."
He does, long enough for her to settle on him, thighs on either side of his pelvis and warmth up against his stomach, her breasts brushing his chest in a tantalizing way that makes him want to put his arms around her and gather her close, if it wasn't for warning signals going off in his head, in a bizarrely muted cacophony.
"What are you doing?"
"I just want to see..." she looks down at her hands, which are still holding onto a very small bundle, and he registers what's there, just as she says, "Underwear."
She reaches up and settles her panties around the circle of his head, like a hat, and then smiles. "Underwear," she repeats, in a satisfied tone. "Hey, you know, that's not half--"
"The things that go through your head when you're drunk are going to get us in trouble," he says, as flatly as possible.
She has her hands on his head still, her palms on his ears, close but not confining. The band of her panties compresses his hair against his forehead, a scratchy sensation.
Utsumi tilts her head. "You're the one who said I should drink your godawful Scotch whisky. What did you expect?"
"It's not awful."
"It's an acquired taste, then," he counters, each word slow and measured.
"It tastes like tar and grass."
She presses her mouth to his and he almost falls backward, as she couples the motion with a movement of her hips that's obscene and exactly right.
"You were saying, Yukawa?" she whispers against his lips, just as she swims back into focus.
"I don't remember."
"Good." Her hand comes between them. "Now, where were we?"