She'd expected nerves, yet they haven't appeared excepting a passing thought to note the lack. What Carol couldn't have known is how different Daryl's touch would be than others etched into her memory -- so obvious, now, as to be laughable. There's more in it than want (though that too, gratifyingly). Want can take so many forms, it can hang heavy in booze-tainted breath or encircle a struggling wrist, it can ransack and tear and bleed. Or it can be devoted, yielding, seeking instead of taking. It can be offering and acceptance, it can be fingertips and petal-softness. She knows that, now.

The fit is smooth and perfect, drawing the breath from her in a long, airy note. She curls and flexes to meet him, pushing the pace only a hint here and there, and only after a round gasp that shows her thinning restraint. Initially she'd half entertained rolling off her back and hovering over, pressing down instead -- the intention is lost as her thoughts unfurl pleasantly, and so she finds her leverage in coiled limbs and clutching fingers. No pillow to muffle her this time but his ear sits conveniently close, her lips rest against it and withhold nothing of her sounds.