It's a shift, when he sits up, and sometimes she thinks it's entirely unfair for him that he doesn't get to see what that's like from this perspective, because it makes her breathe out his name again like it's a prayer. Because he shifts his arms around her and he brushes different in her, and she doesn't care how long it takes as long as every moment's even a little like that.

"Want to see your face," she says softly into his skin before pulling her head back enough to watch him. "Need to," breathed again as she stares at his eyes, "when you get what you want," and she squeezes, hard, as she says that, does it on purpose and wants to see how undone she can make him, eyes not moving from his as she kisses him again.

He tastes, she thinks, like rum and chocolate and his sweat and hers mixed on their skin and tea and himself, and it's all in an instant before she tightens muscles again because for all she wants a lot right now, to see the look he gets at the moment when he falls (except not really, because she used to think of it as falling and slipping and now it's not, she thinks, it's flying) is highest on the list, because it's so sweet to see and hers, and she won't share this, not ever, not with anyone. No one gets to see it except her.