She turns her head to the side to muffle her moan a little; if you didn't know better you might mistake the cry for one of pain, but truly it's relief. She wants him; she has him, and thank God for that. They deserve so much more than this-- they should have had all this time together, should have taken every step side by side, should have woken in each other's arms week after week. But they've got now, and it feels like everything falling into place as he enters her.

Her hand curls around his wrist, neither stopping him nor urging him on, just a point of contact-- ready in case it becomes too much to be touched. For both of them, her body is at once familiar and a mystery, her needs changed and unclear. But she trusts him to understand even when she doesn't. (He always has.)

"Yes," she hisses, to everything and nothing in particular, her back arched against him. Maybe she didn't mean slow after all.