If he could moan out yesssss, he would, but her tongue prevents any coherent words from being formed, or for that matter any coherent thoughts, and her burst of aggression sends a shudder through him, an eager, quaking strain as if begging for more.

Meanwhile his hands run blindly over her back, her hips, her thighs spread tautly over his lap. Letting his arms fall loosely behind him, he shakes his thoroughly rumpled shirt from his wrists. Finally rid of the garment, he twines his sinewed arms around her waist again, her bare body so lithe and so capable of incredible feats -- at least his imagination tells him so, fueled by what he's seen her do onstage.