Most people probably wouldn't have a clue what Illya is saying, with their hand pressed firmly to his mouth to muffle the words. Natasha is not most people, though. She's picking up on the vibration of the words against her fingers, the general length and hard consonant sounds of each word, hell, even the movement of his lips against her palm. She can't pick out every word exactly, but she still knows what it is he's saying.

His look of gratitude is matched by her look of mild despair. She's sure he'll be sharp enough to pick up on what's not being said. 'I can still understand you.'

Still, no sign that he'll be stopping any time soon. Her next move is another gamble of instinct, but, well, she does have a very particular skill set. There are things that she's remarkably good at, and some of them have the dual benefit of being unerringly distracting. Illya has to be honest, but that doesn't mean she can't make him react honestly to something else.

So she pulls her hand away from his mouth, runs it around the back of his neck, and yanks his head down to met hers, lips crashing together. When his mouth opens automatically to speak, she sweeps her tongue into it, quick and agile and almost playful. Free hand through his hair, nails rough against his scalp, an assault on the senses.