[Now there's a pretty sight, he thinks with his blue eyes sharp behind the security of his mask, and the prospect of a little catch of personal entertainment besides: can he make her squirm and wriggle enough that her breasts fall out of her top? She's certainly endowed enough that it's plausible, and he wouldn't mind seeing it. There's something particularly erotic about dishevelment, of having taken something put-together and pristine and left his own personal mark on it.]

Shhh. Someone's going to know what you're up to, if you keep talking like that.

[It's entirely a ruse; these alcoves are designed for liaisons of exactly this nature, dampening the ambient sounds so that people can't be overheard unless they go out of their way to try. But it's just one more layer to the thrill of danger she must be feeling: unsteady on her feet and her top threatening to fall and her body craving the touch of a man she doesn't know.]

You're this wet already, and I'm not even inside you.

[It's not just that the fabric is soaked, either, but that it's slick, sliding all the easier against her sensitive folds with the benefit of lubrication to help guide the way as he rubs and strokes and stimulates her.]