She doesn't stay completely silent for much longer. She does have to breathe eventually, and, as he starts to move deeper, faster, she murmurs for him to take it slow, slow, slow, keeping her hand curled tight in his hair and the other braced firmly against the bed.

She doesn't speak more than an occasional whisper and moan. She's having a hard time finding her air, keeping herself from panting as each new thrust steals her breath away. The only reason she's not writhing is because she's stubborn, and because she's half afraid it'll make this more difficult.

She cups the side of his neck, tilts her face against his throat. Shallow puffs of air leak across his sticky skin, catching the moisture left by her mouth.

"Gene."

In the heat of it all she has another one of her moments of uncertainty, where it's all too much and she is so very out of control. What are you doing? There's no turning back, no do-overs, no eraser for this particular blackboard. He's covering her like a heavy fur in the dead heat of summer, and she feels overwhelmed. There's a weight on her chest, his arms boxing her in, she feels caged, and...


And then she snaps back into control.


"Oh, please, Gene..."

She's nudging him, encouraging him to his back in a way that might give him the impression he doesn't have much choice. Her thighs squeeze tight around him, keeping him from pushing in any farther.