The hand that isn't in his hair — Gwenaëlle reaches above to the purchase she'd found on the headboard in getting settled and pulling herself taut between Stephen and the bed. She's so responsive it'd be nearly impossible to miss what he gets right, her back arching under the first questing press of his fingers; he makes her gasp, catching her breath when she notices she's holding it,

the words, “I like your beard,” with audible surprise come out breathier than she's expecting them to, but it's really the least of her concerns, the heel not against his back bracing into the bed beneath so she can twist her hips to chase just the right angle against his mouth, giving up in the moment on containing the choked off, inarticulate sounds that accompany success.

It's a big house. They're probably fine.