Grace hardly needs urging, not when he's kissing her the way he is, strong and sure, her voice a muffled moan against his lips. She rubs her hand deliberately against him, taking an insistent step back, heartbeat ringing in her ears. Time has made them better at this, led them to learn each other, and she loves that, loves how intimately he knows her and how it feels to think someone has her memorized. At other times, though, he has her as clumsy and off-balance as a teenager, inexperienced and fumbling, too drunk on him to pay any attention to which way she's going or to care. "That's the idea, handsome," she breathes out, fingers wrapping around him, though she manages attention enough at least to keep her grip light.