[He can feel the way she's tensing, the way she's clutching at him, and he feels certain she must be close to the edge, must be so close to reaching that pinnacle of pleasure, and he's glad for it, both because he wants her to feel good, wants her to feel as perfect as she seems to him, and because he's reaching that point himself, too. He knows he's past the point of no return, now, that he couldn't very likely stop if he wanted to, and he can only hope that she's being swept along with him.
It only takes a few more movements, hand gripping on her hip again, tightening as the rush of pleasure washes over him, leaving him gasping out her name rapturously, reverently, eyes squeezed shut, movements stilling as he just concentrates on how perfect that sense of release feels. And, yes, maybe there's a curse or two gasped out amongst his other noises, but they're so garbled with pleasure as to be almost indistinguishable from anything else.
And yet, and yet, as his senses start to return to him, as he opens his eyes and looks down at her, breathing hard, not pulling away quite yet, but knowing that he'll have to soon enough, he thinks that perhaps she never reached that point herself. There's the possibility that she's simply quiet, that she'd felt amazing things that she'd never expressed, but if she had, he hadn't known it.
He feels all at once ashamed. He should be making her feel just as good as she'd made him feel. His fingers slide across her hip, down her thigh, just tracing lazy patterns now.]
You... okay?
[How else is he supposed to ask if she'd been satisfied? It isn't a question he's had much experience phrasing before.]
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It only takes a few more movements, hand gripping on her hip again, tightening as the rush of pleasure washes over him, leaving him gasping out her name rapturously, reverently, eyes squeezed shut, movements stilling as he just concentrates on how perfect that sense of release feels. And, yes, maybe there's a curse or two gasped out amongst his other noises, but they're so garbled with pleasure as to be almost indistinguishable from anything else.
And yet, and yet, as his senses start to return to him, as he opens his eyes and looks down at her, breathing hard, not pulling away quite yet, but knowing that he'll have to soon enough, he thinks that perhaps she never reached that point herself. There's the possibility that she's simply quiet, that she'd felt amazing things that she'd never expressed, but if she had, he hadn't known it.
He feels all at once ashamed. He should be making her feel just as good as she'd made him feel. His fingers slide across her hip, down her thigh, just tracing lazy patterns now.]
You... okay?
[How else is he supposed to ask if she'd been satisfied? It isn't a question he's had much experience phrasing before.]