His left hand — still at her breast. The kneading had changed.
Not the attending, working quality of before — the harder, more deliberate quality of a grip that had found a register producing results and was staying in it. The full squeeze. Both fingers and palm, the flesh of her breast yielding and rising around the grip, the thick, warm, considerable weight of it compressed in his hand and then released and compressed again.
Her breast.
Bouncing with every thrust. The specific, weighted, unmanaged quality of it — the heavy, warm, natural swing of a breast that size responding to the rhythm of a cock working her ass from behind, forward and back with each impact, the weight of it moving with the full, pendulum, involuntary physics of significant mass.
He pinched her nipple.
