The woman who's always in control of everything tends to lose control when it comes to really really good sex, her lips messily brushing over his, the corner of his mouth and his chin, nails scratching at the tops of his hands as his fingers slip a little on her wrists, his palms sweaty against her forearms, his body forewarned with the tightness of her body and the urgency of her words. Her slender thighs loop around his waist, muscles rigid against the small of his back as he shifts [his range of motion is so fucking limited now; he's used to it, normally, but this is - intense]. He'll forget this except for the moment, the adrenaline and endorphins and all that good shit, that love, coursing through his veins, but the light of the camera is constant and it'll outlast his memory and his stamina for the night. "Me, too," he manages, voice ragged, nearly hoarse. He shifts his hips as he moves deep, not quite rolling them, adjusting his angle and clumsily stealing a kiss. "Please."