He huffs a laugh against her hair and brushes lips over the rise of her cheek before he speaks. It does not even occur to him that she might wish him to leave, just yet, and he does not show any sign of preparing. His thumb smooths over her soft skin, though it is a simpler motion than the patterns she draws against his back.

He cannot recall the last time he laughed so much or so often, particularly during sex. He feels so much lighter--he is not nearly whole, but the wound in his heart has been cleaned, flushed, and the bitter infection in the depths of it purged away. He is not so terribly sad and, for that, he is grateful.

He draws a long, slow breath through his nose, fills his lungs with the scent of her, of them, and then speaks. He sounds both lazy and immeasurably contented.

"Does her ladyship require anything else, once I undertake that harrowing journey?" He says, after a long moment spent with his eyes shut, reveling in the softness of her hair. He leans back then, but only so far that he might stretch up just a bit and peer down at her, sleepy eyes indented at the corners with his happiness.

"Some fine oils and salts, perhaps? Or refreshment of some kind?"