Soft, barely audible moans are escaping Lydia as he kisses her. It's been too long since she's been with a man. Aiden counts, she supposes, but he died almost a year ago now. Or maybe more; it's hard to keep track. He's the last person she's slept with and the last person who touched or kissed her the way Matt is. It takes a conscious effort to push that thought — and the guilt that seems to be inexplicably attaching itself to that thought — out of her mind to focus on Matt, but she manages it.

At first, when she tells him what she wants, she isn't sure he's understood her. He seems to get it a moment after and her eyes slip shut so that she can focus on the tactile sensation of Matt's hands moving over her bare skin.

Lydia lets out a soft breath as his fingertips ghost over her ribs and her eyes open again, although they're hooded with desire and need. Lydia's own hands are moving on his chest again, sliding down his torso and teasing at his waist if only because she can't really get it any lower with the position that they're in and the fact that his jumpsuit is still on. "It's better without the too-big jumpsuit in the way," she says quietly, although she does have to give credit where it's due: the GREEN one fits a lot more nicely than her RED and ORANGE ones did and do. It's not fitted, but it's closer. "I thought maybe you could get a better idea with it off," she adds, a playful lilt slipping into her raspy voice.