You sat together under a fig tree, the scorching sun caressed the bronze chest of young Achilles, covered only by part of the chiton thrown over one shoulder

He never objected to your touches, but at that moment he noticed your resistance and raised himself on his elbows, frowning on his childish face

Achilles: My mother is not here. She can't watch us. And besides, I'm not bothered by her thoughts about you.

Why do I have to beg you to touch me?