Dimly...

She can feel him moving. It's not unpleasant, it's not painful, it's just a fact — like swimming underwater, the sensations are dulled a bit but she can still feel it. She feels it when he pauses, feels it when he lifts his hand away from between them. She floats, breathes, and when he finally comes with a shout, a part of her relaxes. Ah. It's over. Things can go dark.

Losing consciousness comes with the sensation of falling.

The falling is what eventually startles her awake, eyes snapping open as she's curled against his chest. Twitching, she clings to his shirt with a hard grip, attempting to sit up and likely throwing them both off balance, breathing hard. She was falling, she was going to hit the ground and then she would — It'd been the steady movement of his legs that she'd mistook for falling, the way he was carrying her.

Groaning, she sacrifices pride for convenience, buries her face in his shirt and shudders. She can still feel the heat, and worse — she's sticky between her legs, she can smell the aftermath of sex all over her and mingled sweat.

"Where are we?" In the moment, overall, the question of the hour.