The sounds.
Arriving in sequence — the quick, stacking quality of sounds produced by a body that was accumulating sensation faster than it could process and was expelling it the only available way. Not performed. Not the sounds of someone making a sound — the sounds of someone whose body was making sounds.
'Schlkk. Schlkk. Schlkk.'
'"AHH—!! AHh—!! HANH—!!"'
Her legs.
She was trying to close them.
The I-cannot-sustain-this quality of her thighs moving toward each other — the belly between them preventing the full close, her legs bracketing the swell, finding his wrist with her inner thighs and pressing. Not maliciously. The automatic, too-much-too-fast quality of legs that were trying to create a smaller target.
His other hand.
Found her knee.
Pressed.
The flat, single-handed, entirely-non-negotiating press of a palm against her inner knee — the outward direction of it. Not violent. The language-of-a-man-who-had-decided quality of it. The this-stays-open quality.
