If she were more collected, she might make more of an effort to stay quiet; but she can't even think about that. Everything is reaction and instinct right now; she finds herself clutching his arm, not to urge him on but just because she needs to touch him, and she can't find the coordination to be more intentional about it.

It doesn't take long at all-- each thrust of his hand earning a breathy little oh. And when she comes with a loud cry-- too loud, maybe, when he's so close, but she doesn't have the presence of mine to quiet herself-- her nails dig into his forearm, her thighs clenched around him.

"Oh my God," she gasps, when the tension leaves her, letting go of his arm. She doesn't even have the energy yet to try to kiss him.