Her hands are small, but her nails are sharp and, overall, they do a lot of damage. He can't say he doesn't enjoy it, though. He might actually love it more than her. Which is strange because she's seemed to pick up even more masochistic tendencies over the years. The list of them must be too long for even God himself to try to count, the Doctor's sure of it.
She tastes like Gallifrey. He's sure if he broke away, he could see the shimmering, orange light from one of its suns dripping off her lip. But he wouldn't tear his mouth away from hers now if it were a life-or-death situation.
Although, currently, kissing her like this is an equivalent to a life-or-death situation.
Those piercing nails of hers rake down his back and he's grateful he's still wearing his shirt because he'd have marks across his back for days if he'd chosen to fling it aside. But, come to think on it, it seems like the less clothes are cast aside, the better.
Missy fists a hand into his silver hair and drags his mouth away from hers – to catch her breath, he quickly realises. He hadn't noticed it was depleting for himself, either. It was as though they were trying to rob it from each other and couldn't quite get there.
“You look so fragile now,” she remarks with a toothy grin, dropping a hand between them and skimming over the front of his trousers. The nails scratch lightly over the heated fabric now and he drops his head to her shoulder, hissing. “So bony and thin – if I wanted, I could snap every little one of those bones with my fingertips,” she whispers, stroking him through his trousers. He thinks he manages “fuck” one or two times. It must be the Scottish in him in this body that's prompted him to swear far more than any of his previous incarnations.