It does not occur to him that she lacks context for his request. It also does not matter, as the means is drowned beneath the surface of sensation it weaves when combined with touch and tension and roaming, pinpoint demand: her fingers direct him, her requests inspire fervor— he snaps his teeth at her shoulder, before the impatient, near painful buildup of frictionless yearning is unbearable.

He cannot endure more without shared sensation, and so his fingertips withdraw in a hurried rush of movement, fleeing instead towards the waistband of his trousers, tugging harshly at them to free himself.

Ungraceful compared to his usual deft precision, borne of impossible avidity, it does not matter. Nothing matters, save for the hold he fixes on her hips when he levels himself against her— when he trades the rough set of scarred fingertips for the span of his own arousal, breath snared in the base of his throat.