She doesn't bother explaining how much she likes 'spoiling' him. She doesn't truly think she could spoil him if she tried, but she still likes trying. It's just not a conversation worth having when he's nodding off.
He shudders unbidden beneath the vibrant press of it, fingers tightening in their grip across her arms— one low, lone breath exhaling through his nose.
A noise escapes his throat, stern, impatient. It takes only a single moment— where her fingers begin the process of gracing her nightclothes— for him to reach high and snare her, yanking her to the mattress with a growl.
Victory is hers, it seems.
And neither of them will be sleeping for yet another night.
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"You're right," she says, "you stink."
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He stops there, head lifting like a dog called to attention from its den.
“Do I...?’
They have kept busy. It would not be a stretch to imagine he makes himself less than pleasant for the effort of it, salt still clinging to his skin.
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She punctuates this by kissing at his neck hard enough she's basically tasting him.
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An attempt to steady himself, however futile.
“...I thought we were meant to sleep.”
Mild. Enduring. And far, far from scolding.
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She's already unbuttoning her nightgown. "Noah. I need you." Her voice is less need and more mischief.
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Victory is hers, it seems.
And neither of them will be sleeping for yet another night.