Rendering Loxley speechless—if this can be called speechless, because there is much communication in the sounds he's making and the grasp of his hands on her—is a singularly satisfying accomplishment. The small, experimental movements transition to something more deliberate. There's such intention in the undulation of hips, even if the pace remains languid and syrup-slow.

Her hands lift from his shoulders to his face again, leaving the business of steadying her in this business to Loxley's capable hands. It feels so urgent to be able to touch his face softly, thumbs on his cheeks, her fingers delicate along the line of his jaw, drinking in the way his reactions wash across his face.

"You're beautiful," she tells him again. Derrica makes no effort to hide the tremor running through her body, the shiver of exertion as she rides him, how her voice has gone breathless. "You're so good, Loxley."

Two different things but between them it covers a broad sweep of what she finds admirable about him, with the latter more heavily weighted than the former. It's not about how he feels, or how this feels, it's about the only reason this is happening in the first place. Loxley is a good man, and that is why it was easy not to say yes to him, but to fuck him this way, slow and open and without pretense.