He's so lovely, so close, warm and strong, the heavy weight of his body as he presses against her side, and then over - it shuts out the word in this new sort of dance she takes his lead on. It isn't the rushing high of the night before, more of a long pull, like drifting out to sea as she cups the back of his neck in her free hand, her breath falling into the pattern of his.

Even the way he bucks is pleasant, a unison that echoes her own desire, new as it is. The languid, rushing, washing sort of back and forth with wonderful little highs as he begins to move his hand. That makes her intended affectionate brush more clutching, chasing it, blissful and wonderful, new, and good.

It breaks with surprised squeal, then gasp, her thighs closing shut around his hand as she arches to keep him in. Rocks, twitches and thrashes in the inevitable end, squirming haplessly against him like she didn't know where to put herself. Her fingers scraping over the muscle of his shoulder, eyes screwed shut with little spilt whines as she falls over the other side. Gone, gone, gone, all out to sea in a cresting wave.