He wants (he wants, so much and so thoroughly that in this moment there’s little else to him but wanting,) to settle any lingering nerves she might have, he wants her to feel every bit as incredible as he thinks she is. And he does. It’s not only physical (though the attention he’s lavishing on her ought to bear witness that he doesn’t find her wanting; he neither avoids nor focuses on old wounds; they just are, unremarkable, his lips are as likely to fall on them as not), she’s suited to him in ways he never imagined anyone could be. He could, he thinks, spend hours like this, with his hands and his mouth on every inch of her, striving to make her feel desired, appreciated.

But he'd like to think he'll be able to find hours for that in the days to come. For now, they really have waited such a long while already.

She might be limited in the scope of how she can respond, positioned as they are, but the way she's shifting beneath him is endlessly encouraging. Being wanted in turn means he has no reason to hesitate; and so, at length, his hand slides down her side slowly to clutch at her thigh, and he lifts his head, nuzzling aimlessly at her throat on his way back to kissing her properly, shifting slowly against her.