He's biddable enough - usually is under the press of her fingers -, and lets himself be pushed back, the line of his shoulders heavy against the (mostly) upright futon at his back. Though it doesn't stop him from shifting his hand down, touching Chloe where she's hot between her legs. And while he can't keep her shirt rucked up at this angle, other hand slipping down to the flat line of her stomach, he tugs on the hem in an explicit display of how much he dislikes the bloody fabric there - a brief irritant that doesn't do much to knock the smug look off his face, all half grin with an edge of teeth as he settles in.

Sorry's got nothing to do with it, honestly.

"I should probably be off," he says, cheerful as he works her over with the callused pad of his thumb.