There’s a marked difference between not wanting to talk about it (he doesn’t) and wanting to deny it (he also doesn’t). He’d leave her space to wriggle out of any definition of what they are, because by his own standards he’s not much of a catch, but he wouldn’t deny her. There’s not even an ounce of kneejerk embarrassment there; though maybe he’d sing a different tune if someone had walked into their moment among the trees, which has nothing to do with being with her and everything to do with the position they were in. Right now, it’s everything to do with total impatience.

If they were just beginning, here, he’d be more reserved; he wouldn’t take it on faith that he’s got license to move as far and as fast as he’d like to, he’d ease into it. As it is, consumed with the memory of her mouth on him he’s only holding back enough to keep from falling all over himself, eager and greedy, shamelessly grabbing her ass to hold them close and trying to steer her toward the edge of the bed. If she hesitates, if she tenses, he’ll stop dead; if she lets him, though, he’ll ease her down as best he can without breaking their kiss more than strictly necessary.