“Stop—“ his grip cinches like a clamp well before he speaks. Not at first brush, not as some curling, instinctive aversion to it, but his heart hammers high in his throat already after (not) so long under siege, his intake of breath painfully quick; he can feel himself stumbling along the precipice of something formless and nameless, and if she goes on like this—

With his hold on her scalp he asserts that line. He permits nothing else by way of her own movements, grants no concessions, panting audibly, the outline of his silhouette comprised entirely of stubborn willpower. “Stop.”

An order, chased by something thready, and much more quiet.

“...not yet.”