It doesn't seem to matter that he said he can't be everywhere, given how absolutely her world narrows down to him now. His skin is warm where her legs press against him, his hand so right in her own, but oh, most of all, it's down to his fingers and mouth. Meredith arches up with a cry so soft, it's almost silent, hips bucking up against him, her other hand tangling in his hair. It's the way he seems to enjoy this nearly as much as she does, the pleasure that's so focused, so persistent, it's almost too much. The building pressure, the heat of the fire, the bite of her own nails when she lifts her hand to clutch at her breast for lack of anything else to hold tight to — he might as well be all of it, everywhere, pushing her ever closer.