Her tongue moved against his anyway. The helpless quality of a body that had stopped taking instructions and started taking something else. She felt the low, slow sound that came out of him then — felt it against her teeth, the warm vibration of it — before she heard it.
"Mmngh..."
Low. Deliberate. The sound of a man who had found what he came looking for and had no plans to hurry past it.
Her cane fell.
She registered it distantly — the slow, gravity-assisted angle of the dark wood tilting, the silver handle describing its arc, the small sound of it finding the alley floor. She didn't look at it.
The gun left her hand the same way. The palm-opening quality of fingers releasing because the hands had been given something more immediate to do.
She heard it hit the alley floor.
She heard it distantly. Through the sound-narrowing quality of a mouth that had been claimed and was staying claimed.
And then his hands moved.
