The tone in Crowley's voice sends shivers down his spine, with the sting on his neck having something to do with it. The offers he gives the demon when the mood strikes for intimacy and passion are delivered easily and well, but sometimes there is a struggle, a pleasant one, to listen more than he speaks. To feel and to turn, to take or to give, hold or be held. But there are no limits in the way they go about these things, they can do all if they so wish. These things, these moments that are theirs and theirs alone. Thrills that won't end.

Aziraphale doesn't rush, either. He never rushes when he's enjoying something, unless that's part of the experience, and even then. He takes a few more seconds to press kisses on Crowley's face, on his temple, before finally pulling away languishly, shifting and lowering himself onto the bed, plush and comfortable, glancing over his shoulder at his demon.

"I love you, my dear." Simple words, a quiet voice, but also given with a point. There are many ways the angel can lack in being self aware, but less so when situations of this nature call for his full attention.