She's on top of him, slim thighs framing his hips, body moving sinuously over him, riding him, driving him crazy. And then she stops. Her gaze bores into him, a strange light shining from their hazel depths. Her mouth opens with a breath, lips curve as if to speak.

He waits, and she changes her mind. He's about to ask, to probe, to pull the thought from her as he is so good at doing, but she twists her hips and resumes her movement, faster than before, and his thoughts are lost in a swirling haze of need.

Her eyes don't leave his, even at the point where she would normally tip her head back, basking in the sensations their bodies produce together. Instead, they tighten at the corners, showing the strain of keeping open, keeping locked on his own blue eyes. He doesn't know why it's so important, but as he watches her orgasm wash over her, her eyes dilate and unfocus, he's suddenly not so concerned with why.

When she comes back to herself, she smiles at him, soft and warm with no little bit of sass before she does that thing he loves, that gripping, pulling, magical thing with her muscles, and he's gone, mind spinning and body spilling into her.

Later, curled together, skin drying sticky and uncomfortable, breath once again calm and measured, he speaks. With his arm around her, holding her against his side, he asks why she'd stopped and what had gone through her mind.

Her sudden bashfulness surprises him, delights him, and he grins as she hides her face in his neck. She demurs, he pushes; it's the way their story is written. Finally she peeks up at him, her cheeks pink, although she'd recovered from their exertion. He asks then what she'd been about to say.

"I don't want to say it for the first time in bed."

And just like that, his world is complete, full of life and color and everything he could ever want. Because although he's known that she loves him, she's never said it before. And even though she still hasn't, now he knows it's there, hovering on her tongue for the right time.

He loves her more for it.