Her hunger is overwhelming, and the rest of the world is collapsing around them. He shoves his free hand lower to the place they meet, taking the feeling of each stroke as a promise that this is real. He's inside her, and her body is begging for it. It doesn't matter if she's tender or swollen, it seems a waste of the trip to not rub her roughly at the same time. Before he abandons the effort, he gives her a quick flick, aimed for the most sensitive piece of her.

Sweeney anchors briefly on her hip, to steady himself, and the clench of his fingers is certain to leave neat bruises in the arch of their tips' contact. He fights for focus, not ready to yield yet, not when she's so clearly wanting. The thought of leaving her unsated is anathema. Sweeney stutters a touch, and wraps forward, finding the coloring swath of skin from her throat to her shoulder presented in offering. He licks and bites and bites, groaning into the flesh pressed between his teeth.

He wants to devour her and be consumed in the same moment, raw and aching and here.