Joyce has always been (rightly, she thinks) proud of her chest, and she arches her back a little, pressing her breast into his hand, biting her lip over a moan when he thumbs at her nipple. It's kind of refreshing, to be as old as she is, happy in her skin, confident and comfortable. She presses her fingers into Hopper's hair, cradling the back of his head as he kisses her collarbone. She smoothes her free hand over the broad line of shoulder, back to his shoulderblade.

"C'mon, Hop," she says, her voice husky. "Use your words."