One full involuntary shudder ran through her from chest to thighs.
Then Raven simply let go.
Veronica dropped.
Her body descended without ceremony — his hands released, no ceremony, no softening — and she slipped downward with the heavy slow sliding weight of a woman fully spent, landing on the floor of the booth with both legs folded under her, her back against the glass panel, her mouth open, chest heaving, cum leaking out of her already and tracking warm and white down the inside of her thigh while the shower water rinsed it in pale rivulets toward the drain.
"Veronica—!"
Frau Müller reached down.
Her hands searched — blind, immediate, alarmed — finding Veronica's shoulder, her arm, leaning down toward the floor with the concerned instinct of someone reaching for a fallen friend without thinking about what her own body was doing.
She leaned forward.
Her hips lifted.
