He paused.
Seven centimeters out.
Two still inside.
He waited.
Three seconds.
Her hips moved.
She didn't decide to move them.
The small, helpless, backward press of them — two centimeters of him still inside her, and her body pressing back, the involuntary motion of something that had been introduced to a sensation and was now, against every rational argument, asking for it.
He felt it.
He looked at her.
At the back of her head, the flower petals in her hair, the bangles on her wrists.
He said nothing.
He waited another two seconds.
Her hips pressed back again.
Slightly more.
"Don't," she said.
Not to him.
To herself.
"Don't. Don't. I don't — I'm not—"
He pressed forward.
The two centimeters returned. The three.
"HNGH~—"
She stopped talking to herself.
The four.
"MMNH~—"
The five.
She pressed back.
She was pressing back.
