Meaning she can't help but laugh-- or try to when she breaks a smile against his cursing mouth, unintentionally inhaling what he breathes out before her teeth are at his jaw instead. Given the difference in positioning there's little left to her to do as his thrusting sets fire to her nerves; Chloe makes up for it (as best as she can coming down from a Sahara's worth of a dry spell) with the sharp scrape of her teeth, with the edge of her nails as they settle in at the neckline of his shirt and drag livid, welling lines across his skin. With locked muscles and a flexible, arched back.

It's familiar. The feeling of his thick, corded muscles under her knuckles and between her legs as sturdy as a bloody brick wall-- but also his scent. The sound of his voice and the taste of cheap wine. Turns rough, hungry sex into a fixed point between spaces: what she'd lost and what she's gained all over again.