His smirk speaks to his thought. Trixy minx.

Sweeney's hand darts to catch her by the back of her head and yank her to him so he can kiss her hotly. It's brief, if hungry, and he pulls her back a few inches by a fistful of hair.

"Teagmháil liom," he requests with a lift of his brow, seeing if she recalls enough.

After a few moments, he makes an addition.

"Úsáid do theanga." Sweeney's lips curl wantonly. "Use yer tongue." His grip remains in her hair, but loosens enough for her to move.