She makes a face at the reprimand, almost tempted to rake her nails down her bare skin just to be contrary, but obliges anyway; curling her fingers in at the knuckles to keep the tips of her fingers away from Adora's body.

But she's getting what she wants, her ears twitching at the sound of Adora's heel dragging, and when she moves her hips back Adora is there, directly against her, and she exhales a shuddering breath that contains the last quiet vestiges of a moan against Adora's neck.

"Adora," she wants to do -- something, with her mouth, so she presses it against Adora's skin in moves that could have been called kisses were they not so filled with nips of teeth and drags of tongue. Her hands move down, knuckles sliding against the defined muscles of Adora's abdomen, and then Catra has to move one to brace herself on one arm against the mattress; so she can press the backs of her knuckles against Adora's pubic mound, imagining the blonde curls there as she inches her own knee in place, thinking of the slick heat Adora would be rubbing against her were it not for the shorts. It just makes her roll her hips harder into Adora's leg, every inch of her alive and craving. "Adora, you have hands." Because right now, it kind of seems like she's forgotten they exist and it's unfair, because Adora's always touching her and always driving her mad but right now she's not even using them, and Catra needs her to. Can she be blamed for being a little frustrated, a little harsh, when she demands: "Use them."