No one would have said to that to her before him. No one would have had cause to, because Sylvie hasn't had reason to be kind for a very long time. Her fingers twist in his hair again and she gasps at the touch of his mouth, his lips on her clit, the press of his tongue inside of her.

One leg lifts and hooks properly over his shoulders as Sylvie's back arches and she moans again. Then, on a gasp, "Fingers, please."

She rarely says please, but here she will. Here, it feels appropriate, like she isn't giving anything up.