'til the end of the line

For much of her life, sex has been rushed. It hasn't all been bad, Sylvie sees no point in bothering with sex if it's not enjoyable, but it's always been rushed out of necessity. There simply hadn't been the time or the space to be loud, to allow herself to be distracted from her safety. Everything was for the sake of getting off and nothing else.

It's different here.

Bucky touches her, kisses her, he moans, breathless, and compliments her. She braces herself against his stomach, both her hands splayed, and she gasps as he lifts her, then drags her back down. Their bodies are dragging together and she curls her nails under, scratching against his skin.

"Do what you want," she tells him, a level of trust allowed to almost no one. "What do you want?"