It was worth the battle to restrain them to hear her increasingly ragged gasps, to feel the desperation mount within her and know it wasn't him driving, wasn't him orchestrating and controlling her that made her so. As they moved together, her riding him, him thrusting just enough to appease them both, to let passion flow unimpeded on its course, as the familiar landscape of sexual delight flowered around them, as passion wound through them and tightened its snare, he was distantly aware of how different the familiar was. How much more layered with feeling, with meaning. With emotion. The end, when it came, was an implosion of sensation, finer, sharper, reaching more deeply than any such moment before. With a cry, high, triumphant, and primarily female, she shattered in his arms; the contractions of her sheath caught him, drew him on. Release swept him, and he cried her name, held her down, his grip unforgiving as he shuddered beneath her.