[She's not going to tell him to stop saying that. She's not. Because rather than hurting, rather than making her feel guilty, it's starting to feel nice. Hearing again and again that he loves her, really loves her. She'll never understand how, or even why, but maybe that's not something that matters as much as she thought it once did.
Rather than responding aloud, she just smiles at him and finds his lips again. They're so soft and welcoming and his fingers, she's finding, are just as good at stroking skin as they are at kneading dough or painting canvases. She snuggles closer to him, wanting to be enveloped by his body as completely as she's given into this hunger.
She bends her legs, trying to turn on her side, fingers tightening in his hair, wiggling, doing anything that would mean getting closer. Feeling his chest hard against her own again.]
[action]
Rather than responding aloud, she just smiles at him and finds his lips again. They're so soft and welcoming and his fingers, she's finding, are just as good at stroking skin as they are at kneading dough or painting canvases. She snuggles closer to him, wanting to be enveloped by his body as completely as she's given into this hunger.
She bends her legs, trying to turn on her side, fingers tightening in his hair, wiggling, doing anything that would mean getting closer. Feeling his chest hard against her own again.]