Sweeney rocks a touch as a byproduct of moving; his other hand lifts from the door and catches her by the throat, urging her back against the wood. He doesn't squeeze, but his thumb hooks roughly under her jaw and forces it up.

"Like fuck, I can't. I'll bring them where'er the fuck I like." It's firm but also hungry. He delights in the idea of his boots clacking in Godric's shower.