She bit her lip.
She did not cry. She had already cried. She turned her head — the deliberate, self-protective quality of a woman who has decided she does not want to watch anymore, her face turning to the side, her cheek against the sheet—
And then her eyes fell on the space between their legs.
The thick, driving, blood-wet quality of him moving in and out of Avriana above her — the visual arriving from directly below with , intimate, gravity-aided quality of seeing something from beneath — the flat, slap of his balls with each forward thrust, the dark, gleaming, blood-and-slick-coated quality of his cock, the sounds of it all.
Mira's tongue touched her lip.
She didn't decide to.
She simply did it, , reflexive quality of a body that had been so thoroughly conditioned by what he tasted like that it responded to visual information without waiting for permission.
She moved.
