Her hands rove and slide over skin and through the hair on his head, then across his chest. She revels in the glow of orgasm and he is taken with her. He leans into the touch of her hand on his face, brushes his lips against her wrist, and stills only briefly as he awaits her answer. His movements do not seem to bother her, but the preception of comfort and permission are separate--and slowing helps aid his frazzled nerves.

She squeezes him with her knees and he letso ut a heady sound of delight. Permission and a desire to know his preference. He cannot possibly begin to explain how he likes--he is too overcome to start that conversation, but he will continue how best pleases him. He settles her legs about his waist and hips and moves to cage her in with his arms. This is easiest, this lets him bed and shower her chest, her neck, her face with attention.

His hips snap forward hard, shaking the bed and her atop it. They move fast and punishing--a furious stacatto beat--and his mouth slants across hers, gentle and tender as he fucks into her. The glide of it, the smoothness of his thrusts, the sounds of their flesh as he delves and slaps and bottoms out are all obscene and divine. He will last until that ring is removed, he knows, but he is so sensitive, so twisted up, that he will lose his rythym if she does not crest soon--and he will be terribly embarassed to have failed to keep that.