Distantly, Jone wonders if she's gotten him off with an insult.

The rest of her is dazed, sore and wanting, pressed under the weight of a man she has far too much affection for. This is going to end poorly, but that's almost a freeing thought. Knowing the ending means she won't be surprised, at least. There's no distraction of hope. Within reason, she can do as she likes.

She thinks she's be forgiven for snaking a hand down to finish herself off. It doesn't take much when she's sore and aching like this, she knows from experience. A stutter-stop gasp, and she moans his name directly into his ear, a gift apology for the previous insult. She doesn't intend to truly apologize; it worked, didn't it?

Contented, she lets the moment linger, sweat-soaked and tender. She pets his hair and stares at the ceiling, momentarily content in her victory.