The chill has dissipated in the room and this close to them mostly because it'd be damned difficult for it not to, but the air still pebbles her skin when his mouth comes off her breast and she inhales to focus on him and not just on— well, his mouth, mostly. She slides further up the headboard, pushing herself on flat hands, and he can see the gears turning in her head,

strategizing. Yes, and- of sex. It's a funny thing, almost: rarely a position she chooses, but appealing in the context of giving him what he wants, and she's finally learned from a hundred times she only said yes, of course that it still matters what she wants, too. That hasn't always gone without saying.

(It hasn't always been said, either.)

“I can work with that,” she repeats, arch this time, rolling up onto her knees and backing up to guide him nearer— til her back is against the headboard, her knees bracketing his hips and his cock trapped between them as they adjust, brace, settle. Maybe she doesn't need to move as slow or deliberate as she does, exactly. Sweat and slick and saliva mingle and it's a warm, messy press — Gwenaëlle rises up, braced on her toes, a hand wrapped around the base of him and she takes a moment — struck by it, him, how the moonlight cuts across the room and their bodies because she let herself in the fucking window — to kiss him again, careless of the taste of herself. When she slides down onto him, it's not all at once; rolling her hips a little further on every downstroke, not thinking of how long it's been or what that was—

The cool headboard at her back; the heat of him against and inside her. Good.