It's like a dam has been broken somewhere in his head, and now that Kate is back in his lap, clinging to him, kissing him, holding his head in place so she can lick past his lips, all Benedict can think about is the things they've done together, the countless nights spent curled around each other in bed, their hands slowly exploring under the cover of darkness and blankets alike.

Before he met Kate, he never really understood what everyone's preoccupation with sex and romance was about. It had seemed single-minded and stupid, really.

...And then he understood.

He's spent over a month without her touch, without her presence, without her scent clinging to everything he touched, and it's been torture. He rumbles again, sounding less like a rusty engine spluttering to life and more like something well-oiled and powerful, and clutches at her.