Having lived without him, there's nothing that could be too much. No amount of him could be enough. She moans, ragged and certainly too loud, his touch both a relief and a tease.

It's hard to tell how much is genuinely due to sensitivity and how much of how she feels is the weight of anticipation. She can't help a little whine; the only downside of facing away is she can't see his expression.

"Fuck me," she pleads. She can't think of anything else.