His eyes hood as her nails drag tingling tracks through his hair, a dreamier smile struggling into place in place of outright laughter. Yes, that's what he said. He's very smooth that way.

"You're right," Loxley says, "I do. I admire you greatly."

These words get a little lost as he pulls himself in nearer, dropping a kiss to her shoulder, and into the crook of her neck, the texture of one curling horn nudging her jaw. It's an odd sort of feeling in all this, alien in comparison to things like silky locks of hair or skin gone soft and slippery with exertion, wet mouths and blunt teeth. As if noticing that he's bumped her thusly, he changes the angle of his head, still kissing.

There's a steadiness and security to Derrica's motions and approach that—haven't dulled the intensity of it, exactly, but has held them in this place for longer than he might have lasted otherwise. He could unravel at any moment, and so his effort can focus on not doing that yet, not just yet—

"So beautiful," he's saying, a rough whisper and murmur. "You feel so good, Derrica. You're wonderful."