Her half choked, mewling sound of protest is involuntary and entirely unreproducable, and if she were thinking all that clearly about anything besides the fact that it's insane they haven't been doing this for the past year and a half because fuck —

well, then she might be embarrassed for a moment, but there's really no space for it. She stares at the ceiling, the hand that had been clenched in his hair resting flat just beneath her breasts, feeling her breathing slow and letting the rush of blood in her ears ease until she can actually parse the thing he's just said to her. Awfully conversational for a man knuckles deep in her. She's going to have to do something about that. In fact,

“Not that I wasn’t enjoying that,” a hard sell at this point, if she’d tried it, “but if you don't mind,”

you know, if it sounds good to him, casually,

“I'd really prefer to come on your prick as a rule.”

(The invitation doesn't get much more gilded than that.)