Her hands in his hair — tightening, loosening, tightening. The indecisive grip of someone who was saying 'wait' and whose hands had not agreed on what 'wait' meant in terms of motor action.
'"Raven—"'
He released.
Not the wrenching release. The slow, intentional quality of lips parting, suction drawing down to nothing, his tongue making one last, slow, deliberate pass across the bitten nipple in the closing-bracket quality of a man finishing a sentence.
She felt it.
The lick. After the bite. The soothing-slash-not-soothing quality of it — the contradiction of it, the way it moved through the same nerve channels as the bite but in the opposite direction.
'"Hhh—"'
The involuntary exhale. Her hands still in his hair.
He raised his head.
Looked at her.
At the tears.
