"Iris," he pants into her shoulder. "That-that feels-"
"Shhh," she croons softly. She licks his ear, considers whether she should increase her pace or slow down, or if it would even make a difference, given how he's already shuddering. She knows she shouldn't tempt him further, but that fact that he's finally home from his mission with the League, safe, alive, and aroused in her arms again makes it difficult to contain the words welling inside her.
"I touched myself every now and then while you were gone," she huffs, moving her lips to his hair, which despite the sweat, still smells alluring, and will always smell like the eleven-year-old boy she hugged the first time he came home to her. The memory his scent inspires seduces the confession out of her. "I touched myself, thinking about you…"
"Fuck," he breathes, a word too foul for his pure tongue, for his good heart. And the way he whispers it, the way he swells in her hand, makes her believe him: "I never stopped thinking about you."