It's over all too soon, and before Porrim can even begin to remember herself she's making an indignant noise, like a child whose toy has been taken away too quickly. Before she could even start to have fun with it. She's aroused, blood thrumming, pumping through her veins in a heady way, and now she's blinking at Shepard, eyes that low-lidded sexy-sleepy, bemused, barely cognizant of people coming close.

The words seem to strike a chord in her, though, and some kind of recognition of danger comes back to her gaze, and she finds herself straightening without even thinking, smoothing her hair, her blouse, righting her lipstick where it's blurred across her chin and her cheek.

"Consider it sorted," is all she can manage to say, her facade settling back over her, a purr both smooth and professional.