He's attentive enough to his chosen task that Carol can abide being unattended in other ways, for now, stretching out beneath him and luxuriating in the path his mouth takes. The little patches of her marred skin, some left unsutured out of fear and some for lack of opportunity and supplies, are an insufficient draw by comparison. Likewise, her hands slide over his back and she would swear there's nothing there but the perfect space for clutching him closer.

The fringe of his hair is tickling her again, sparking amusement in the little sounds of encouragement she's making. Her hips shift against him, less intention than instinct, open and waiting, but not so antsy. This feeling of being wanted, treasured for lack of a better word, she isn't in any hurry to nudge it to conclusion; she only wishes to return it, but there are limits to what she can offer in this position.