And fuck, that's a trip, her brown eyes gone nearly black with wanting. She's got this expression on her face that he can't read, hidden underneath all that slack gratification; tension maybe, or-- Not fear, not exactly, but close enough that Sam strokes the hair off her forehead, pets up her back. Murmurs soothing nonsense, shit like it's okay and I know, sweetheart, I--. He can't believe it, the crap that's coming out of his mouth; really can't believe all the stuff that isn't, the shit he's barely managing not to say.

(Although: Andy's got two fists in the hair at the back of his neck, clutching, and she's not really-- she's looking at him like it means something, all those nothing words, so. This desperation thing they've got going, at least it's, uh. A two way street.)

"Sam," she says again, whining. Her eyes keep falling closed against the feeling. He's got one hand on her face now, thumb stroking over an eyebrow, all that aching tension. "Sam, gonna--"

He knows she is; she keeps clamping on him, skittish. "Shh, Andy, I've got you." And normally he'd do something now--flick her clit or palm a breast, help her over the edge--but he wants to watch, is the thing, doesn't want any distractions. He's about thirty seconds from the end himself.