He swivels, moving to take her someplace else, any place else - and stops, too drawn in by the scent and the shape of her to do anything more than just hold her in this moment. "You're killing me," he whispers, syllables forming against her neck while he cards fingers through her hair. Even in a murmur, the words are full of longing, satisfaction and an ache that's begging to be sated with each passing second.