The sound he makes prompts a teeth-baring, self-satisfied grin— and his teeth draw an equally satisfying hitched breath from her, rewarding every firmer press of his hands or the weight of his body with encouragement, vocal and otherwise. It's not out of her mind to fret a little about the pains of his hands, but it's hard to focus on over the way heat streaks through her everywhere their skin connects and the new sensation of his neat beard scraping against her skin. The way his mouth moves and the way she tilts her head back to jerk the tumble of her curls out of his way, he brushes light enough that it tickles for a moment and she finds herself giggling stupidly and helplessly, caught off-guard.

At every turn, it's been easy with him— why not this, too? Of course this, too.

The breath she takes to steady herself doesn't, really, but she doesn't find herself minding. Draws the knee not between his up alongside his hip, seeking pressure, friction, hot and impatient; her chemise riding up between them snags on her thigh, his wrist, entangling, and she reaches between them to free it—

no, she doesn't. She reaches between them to his cock, in search of another strangled sound or his teeth or just to get to know him better, in this moment. The building ache between her thighs follows the drumbeat of her pulse, and it doesn't make any sense any more to hesitate. “I want you,” is a good start, warmly delivered close to his ear, her lips brushing the skin there, “to tell me what you want.”