She's careful with her metal fingers as she runs both hands over his body. Making sure to keep out of his way if he really wanted to do it himself, but when he seems stuck on the clasp, she laughs against his throat and brings her hands back behind her back. Yeah, thousands of years and one thing was the same: dudes never could work out bra clasps.

But it comes off quick as anything with a sharp little tug the right way, tugging it down her arms hastily so she can lean back into his body pressing her breasts into his chest. As much about touching him as shifting her weight so he can keep rolling down her stockings. Which, that's - distracting in itself. His hands trickling through the material just enough to make her groan, that building heat sharp between her legs. That hair-trigger eagerness that she barely needed much to get her going. Especially with the heat of blood, of killing even a little, and his blue, blue eyes.

But distracted or not, twitching her hips looking for contact, some things she needs to make sure of first. Leaning up, she bites his lip, tugging his focus that little bit up to her and not just all the fun ways they can touch each other. "Where shouldn't I touch?" Something else, something else important, Gaige, not just how good his mouth feels or the impatient need to get his pants undone and fuck him. "My arm. Can't feel always how hard I'm pressing with the metal. Say, uh, - " shit, word, something he wouldn't say normally. "Grenade? Yeah, that'll do. If I'm hurting you too bad with it. It'll make me stop straight away."