She is that for that breathless second where his fingers go, squirming and whining petulantly against his lips for contact she's denied, one second is too long before he can feel him moving to align them. Lifting her hips eagerly to help the angle. Her eyes shutting tightly as she gasps with that finally. God finally, filled up and it's oh so good. Her fingers twisting tightly.

Easy to make up for where it's tricky for him to move, more than happy to make up the pace as she rocks steady. God they were going to have to figure out a way that she could get her legs around his waist, one of these days, which is just haphazardly pleasing in the same thoughts of again and more and God, God, God that tear out of her lips in a steadily louder moan. He feels so hot inside of her, and she feels feverish in return. Little against his chest, but pushes up equal in height that is worth it when it means she can put fingers in his hair and twist them tightly to tilt his face to hers. Panting raggedly against his lips, meeting his eyes directly, green and bright, half-mad and gleefully so.

"Come on, Ivar," the blood trickling down her skin, sticky and smeared. "I want to feel bruises tomorrow morning and know I fucked you." Leans in to brush her lips against his ear, scraping her teeth and biting sharply against his fingers. "Hurt me, and I promise I'll hurt you back."