It's the mutual comfort which is most remarkable, that she doesn't shy away or even look away from him despite having an overflow of traumatic mess to weed through. Whether this is so far removed from her prior experiences because of her implicit trust in Daryl or because he's given her every inch she needs or because things happened that flicker-quick, Carol can't say. She doesn't especially care. Whyever this works, it's a fitting culmination, like closing a circuit. Sparks and all.

The only protest that comes to mind is that he's teasing, though she's hardly one to throw that particular stone, and really the poignant glances are every bit as effective at spiking her temperature as the rest. She does, however, give a twittering giggle as his mouth first touches her leg.

"Your beard tickles." She weaves a hand through his hair in case he should get any mistaken impressions about stopping, and slides down to prop herself on an elbow. Before long she's slid to lay flat, and doing anything but laughing, so much that she drags her pillow close enough to turn her face against when the inevitable need arises.

She's not shy about offering simple directions, shifting her hips or gasping out a word until he strikes just so and then there, right there is the last of it, and she's muffled against the pillow with her hand twisted in the bedsheets. The shift from almost to beyond is shockingly fast, yanking her off the mattress almost to sitting (and blessedly silent, she left the pillow behind).

Back onto the mattress with a lazy flop, head lolling, she draws a deep breath and looks over at him, quirking her finger.

"C'mere." She needs a moment for certain but not a chance is she through with him. If he could shed a few articles of clothing on the way it'd help her a lot.