A small, high-pitched noise escapes her at that touch on her neck, which aches for more. The need to feel his mouth graze along the skin there is painful, his lips, his teeth...Crowley's hands spasm on Aziraphale's shoulders, snarp nails digging into layers of coat and jacket and waistcoat, far too many layers, far far too many.

"Yes." It's a hiss more than a word. "Fuck, yes." She squeezes her thighs together in an attempt to relieve a bit of the growing ache there, and it does nothing. Crowley groans her frustration aloud, swaying a little in his gentle grip. "Angel--"