Sweeney wants to tell her he loves talking like this too, the intimacy of words aching in their disuse. He wants to tell her how hearing them offered off her tongue makes him yearn to fill her mind along with the rest of her. How all of it makes him burn in the memory of wanting.

But the moment her warmth finds him, all he can do is gasp and press his head back into the grass. His hand twists tightly in her hair, and the other catches her by the shoulder. It would be a lie to say they don't seek to encourage her, but he leaves the act for her to control. They're more an anchor than anything.

The acute sensation puts into stark light how much his body has already born tonight, how sensitive he's been left, even though it's all too apparent he's not going to be stopping anything until they both get what they want from this.