"Yes," she murmurs, voice low and husky. Yes, she likes that; she likes him; she likes the idea of him leaving a mark on her. She likes the way he feels beneath beneath her, though she shares the faint superstition, after last night, that it's better not to say so.

(And, yes, she likes the faint sense of the forbidden-- though that's less to do with him being her decades-older colleague, because he's also himself. But this isn't his house, and even if it's her house it isn't hers.)

"More," she demands, unspecific but vehement, tangling her fingers in his hair and bending to kiss his temple.