Dutch's eyes had been locked onto his book for hours now, illuminated by the dim lantern that sat behind his cot, just enough light for him to read. His hand lay on your hip, over the covers you shared.

With a heavy sigh, he closed the book, bored of the story. But now that he wasn't focused on it — there was you. He slid his hand under the covers, his thumb tracing gently over bare skin and the lace of your bloomers. So easily accessible.

Can you blame the man for letting his mind wander?