Rachel is what you'd call a controllist.

He thrusts forward, hard, and mutters, "Gonna fuck you so hard you feel me tomorrow," before pulling back, only to lunge forward once more. He has more self-control than she does, fractions of words bubbling from between her lips and he swears he hears his name and a little profanity in there, but maybe that's more his imagination and less her actual whispers. His Rachel's body moves against his own almost automatically, her hips shifting as his yield space and immediately demand it once more, fingers squeezing and it's a near certainty that she'll have lengthy bruises circling her wrists that match the width of her fingers, and possibly crescent-shaped indentations where his nails have bitten just hard enough into her thin skin. His shoulders flex, muscle beneath skin glistening with sweat, and he opts to focus on motion and sensation rather than speech at the moment. He doesn't think these days about the ways that he's changed her [she never really changed, never really needed to change] so much as the way that he and Beth have impacted her, but the ways that she's changed his life? He could write a fucking book. The way that he loves her as they rock together, as he presses his forehead lightly to hers and shares her breath as he moves fiercely, is just one line on a very long list.