The sheets were in disarray around his kneeling form. The inner muscles of her thighs loosened their viselike grip on his as she began to slip down from her peak. Buffy’s face was buried in the crook of his neck; the hands that had been clutching his shoulders relaxed, allowing her nail beds to fade from white to pink.
Her breathing evened as his hands trailed up her back massaging the damp skin. A small sound fell past her lips as she came back to awareness and Daniel laughed, turning his head to brush his mouth against her temple. “Still with me?”
Her fingers flexed around his arms, digging in to help ground herself as Buffy whispered against his skin. “Little bit.”
Daniel’s hand slipped down her back to cup her hips and he rocked them forward while giving a shallow thrust of his. Buffy’s lips pulled up before she mimicked his movement and clarified, “Scratch that—not little. Not little by any meaning of the word.”
His laughter became infectious and her giggles tightened things low in her body forcing Daniel to try and keep up with her second wind. There was something to be said about Slayer stamina.
2nd note: La Petite Mort is French for ‘the little death’ and is usually used in reference to an orgasm. I’m a dirty minded person. I can’t help it.