More bitemarks, claiming the place between throat and jaw. She would start a fashion for high collars and gloves, at this point. "Yes," he murmurs into her skin, "be loud."

Some part of him, the part that is always calculating and logical, is sure he ought to wait longer before moving forward. The rest of him is too inflamed by want. He begins-- slower than last time-- to move himself into her. His hand doesn't move, still massaging his entry, trying to make it as sweet as he can with his blood rushing in his ears, more, more.