His hand on her hip moved, unable to resist reaching up (as well as he could), to touch her other breast with that hand. He moved his fingers faster against her growing more rough as he went, more intent on the sensation than anything near some grazing build up.

For as tawdry as this was, it was also the most innocent thing he'd felt in a long time. Pure. All he could focus on was her. Not what he'd done, or was going to do. Just that connection between their bodies, her grinding down on him like she couldn't get enough of him and appreciating how hard that she'd made him.

And love. On his end, definite love there.