She's nearly incoherent, babbling, Noah and God and more, moaning and screaming, panting with sharp breaths and cries of pleasure. He's fucking a Broadway starlet, just as she'd promised, fulfilling a fantasy that had been present in both of their minds since the very day she'd crawled into his bed for the first time after her NYADA rejection [whether they'd been willing to admit it or not]. "Rach," he moans, his voice low, eyes half-lidded in ecstasy as he moves, back and forth, back and forth, the rhythm automatic and quick, now, as he chases his own pleasure now that they've found hers together. Her toes still indent into the muscles of his calves, nails still digging crescents into the backs of his hands as he holds them tightly, her body still shaking beneath his as he arches his own body against hers and cries her name aloud in a huge rush of breath and heat and fluid as he pulses within her body [so familiar]. His mouth skitters against hers, his kiss wet and sloppy, uncoordinated because just about everything is out of his control at this point [he wants to make it good for her but he's pretty sure that he already has, in the way that matters; his heart thunders in his head or maybe that's just her heart against his chest, they're pressed so close]. He's so much heavier than she is and he does his best to slump to the side when he collapses against her, trying to let the bed take most of his weight [positional asphyxia is a bitch] as he breathes noisily into her hair, his heart thundering like the grounds of the Kentucky Derby.