Shen Yuan takes a gasping breath between kisses, her hands grasping and opening and grasping again in Binghe's hair. "It's—good—" she manages. "So good, Binghe—" She rallies, and the grasping hand because an intentional, gripping, tugging one, pulling Binghe's head back so she can glare up into his face and demand, "put it in."