"Wŏ de--" she starts, and then has enough sense of self to correct her words into a more understandable language, "God, no." The words come out in more of a gasp than something more discernable, and she scoots to the edge of the bed, towards him, hips jutting upward so he won't have to crane much.

At the first brush of tongue, she's already moaning; the addition of fingers practically has her writhing under his mouth as her own fingertips comb through short strands of his hair and grip at the back of his head. The alcohol's only enhancing things, strengthening sensations, and soon enough she's already close - butbutbut -

"If you don't stop, you're gonna make me--" The last word gets lost as a shiver wracks her body, and her grip on his head tightens.