Rachel is what you'd call a controllist.

"After," he agrees, although he doesn't entirely know what he's agreeing to do after. He removes the condom, an action he could probably perform in his sleep, and wipes his hands on the bedsheets when it drops with a soft liquid thud in the trash can. And the after doesn't entirely matter, not when he fits his head into the void against her head and neck, wrapping his arms around her body and hauling her close, almost atop him, definitely to the point of cuddling. [Oh, Rachel. He loves how tiny you are, and the way that you fit perfectly in his arms. How the hell did you get this perfect?]

It takes him a few moments before he shakes his head minutely, sighing and merely hugging her closer. "Fuck, Rach," he mutters, dragging his lips over her temple, one hand finding her breast and cupping it, his thumb and fingertip finding her nipple and rolling it between the pads of his fingers. "Baby, s'not bad. You looked tired. Puckasaurus did you good, and I wanted to fuck you. S'okay. You were awesome. I love fucking you, Rach." He kisses her temple again, his lips traveling over her skin and into her hair. "M'fuckin' tired. If I wake up first, can I go down on you?" [It's a genuine question; he wants permission first, but he's pretty sure she'll give it.]