And then — immediately — the other one. The smooth, practiced, one-to-the-other quality of moving without dropping the rhythm of anything else.
Her right breast now, the full, thick, warm weight of it gathered in his left hand.
The same kneading, pressing, full-fingered quality.
The same owning quality.
The bounce of it as he worked — the specific, weighted, pendulum quality of a breast that heavy responding to the motion, jiggling forward and settling, forward and settling, the weight of it moving with the independent, natural physics of significant mass in motion.
Her right nipple against the wall now.
The roughness finding new skin. The bright, fresh-surface quality of it — the coarse plaster dragging against a nipple that had not been against this wall yet, the sharpness of the texture on untouched skin, the sting of it immediate and specific.
''Nhhh—''
The smallest version of the sound. Compressed to almost nothing. Redirected through clenched teeth into a breath.
