How many times they've been off their tits and going at it she can't remember, but it's been more than enough that timing doesn't matter all that much. Which is good, actually, because the angle of where he's pressed into her and the dull, aching grind from contact is wiping the board of her senses clean. Her toes are curled-- tightly-- against the bare skin of his thighs, and the sharp edges of her nails catch and scratch at the end of each buck. As her breathing goes all stop-start: too quick and too rigid interrupted by brief moments where she forgets to entirely.