That's considerably more than Crowley had been aiming for, and he groans helplessly and falls onto Aziraphale's mouth again, as though all those words are still there and he can breathe them in directly, swallow them, keep them inside the core of himself to warm him from within.

(It was so cold, on the train. So cold, beyond anything. Part of him still feels it, part of him is still desperate for heat)

Crowley starts to move. The kiss is passionate and unrestrained, but the motion of his hips is slow and deliberate, teasing out the drag and push of his thrusts. Sweat beads his forehead but he doesn't increase the pace, however much his body wants to just fuck in with abandon. Not yet. Not yet. It'll be better if he can wait, for both of them. And he needs this, these minutes of being this close, this connected. So does Aziraphale. He'll make it last as long as he can.