The answering laugh fragments into a deep, shuddering inhale as Derrica's fingers flex hard against his shoulders, as if to steady herself against the sensation. Derrica's head drops for a moment, hanging down as she takes advantage of his hand, the dip of his fingers. The pressure towards more has kindled in her belly, building steadily under Loxley's touch.

Even before she lifts her hand, her hands slip along his collarbone, arms sliding so she can cup his face in her palms. Her thumbs stroke the bristle of his beard.

"I meant for you to go first," Derrica tells him, breathless, smile widening in the wake of the protest. "You're spoiling my plans."