Low on his part, maybe. Hers, not so much. It's been too long and she's locked too tight around him to make ignoring the urge to breathe out something harsh in compensation a possibility. Good thing Charlie Cutter's never been afraid of a little profanity.

And it's a good thing that beneath the layers of his coat her nails can't claw deep enough to do any real damage, because the way her fingers scrabble across his chest-- his arms-- in an effort to find purchase while they're flush against one another. Skin and taut heat and the dig of his fingertips where they're clinging hard like a lifeline.


It takes a touch longer than it ought to for her hips to buck up into that friction, but eventually she does. Flexes muscle and shifts her weight and ruts against him as best as she can without any amount of real leverage, and-- shit, Christ is right.