Her legs are as pretty as her chest.
Keltham yanks off his own pants, with the characteristic sound of micro-velcro coming apart which sounds like cloth tearing at first, and casts these apparently undamaged pants aside. (Dath ilan has not evolved separate underwear per se; the bottom assembly just works off the shelf without added components being required.)
He is visibly hard, maybe harder than he's ever been. If he knew that his contraception had followed him here, survived the healing he performed on himself last night, and not been surreptitiously removed by Chelish wizards in his sleep, he'd be fucking her so hard right now. As it is, the two of them are not on childbearing terms. "Be it clearly stated," Keltham says in a thick voice, "that if I'm not fucking you right now, that's not because I don't really, really want to."