Grace closes her eyes, sighing, fingers curling in the sheets. It feels as if every inch of her is being pulled inward to where his tongue meets her skin, straining for more. Right now, she has no intention, even so, of asking for more or urging him on, beyond the way her other hand continues to stroke gently through his hair, tracing along his shoulder. It feels good, and she still feels half-asleep, hazy and drifting, her body pleasantly warm, love for him tightening her chest. She doesn't need to put on the dramatics to let him know how much she likes what he's doing, and she loves him for that, too, that she doesn't need to pretend anything with him, letting the arch of her back speak for her.