He always runs a little warm, hot under her hands. A fast metabolism, maybe, a latent energy. Maybe its his infernal blood, the same kind that gives him a little proof against flame, still running in his veins even while his outer shape has converted to something less devilish.

Or just this, and her, the gentle pace he sets that is no less firm and thorough. Loxley's head tips along with the scrape of her nails, soft inarticulate sounds given at each little thing, variation and sensation. A low, warm shiver at her praise murmured so softly, more tactile than anything else.

"Like this," he agrees.

The angle of an emerging sun is drawing a still-hazy knife of sunlight through the angle of his window. Even through thick glass, sturdy walls, the city slowly waking up is a distant background noise. Louder, though, the creaking of the bed, his shallow breathing, the sounds she makes. "I love hearing you," he murmurs, thoughtlessly, between kisses. "I love how you sound, like this."

Implicit, there: enjoying being the cause of it.