His hand shifts to her back, steadying her as she moves against him. He picks up the rhythm of his thrusts and strokes just a bit, not wanting to rush too much, but he can feel the way she shivers in his arms and he wonders if he can get her off again just like this. He buries his face in her hair. His speaking voice is harsh, but when he can lower it a whisper it's low and warm like a rough whiskey. And he's more than capable of spinning up some sweet nothings. About how beautiful she looks in the firelight, the way she feels, about the want and need he can feel in every wiry muscle, hear in each one of her shaking breaths.