She can count on one hand the number of times she's done this, and for a second, Beckett freezes, unsure of how to proceed. Instinct and memory take over almost instantly when her name slips from his mouth in a quiet groan, and her free hand settles against his hipbone, squeezing her answer once. She's doing this out of what, exactly? No, Beckett thinks, reveling in all of it: the taste of him that lingers on her mouth, new and unfamiliar, the way he'd uttered her name like she's never heard before, the sense that even this gives her nearly as much pleasure as it does him - I'm doing this because I want to. It's a delicate combination of lips and tongue and a hand that every so often slips in to alternate while she glances up at him, gauging his reaction by the expressions that filter over his features.