"Come here," he said. He had not been looking at her. He was still looking at the ceiling. But he had felt her hesitation.
She walked to the bed.
Her feet were bare on the wood. Each step was careful. She reached the edge. She stood beside it. He reached up without looking. His hand found her wrist. He gripped. He pulled.
She fell.
Not hard. He controlled the pull. She landed against his side, her heavy body pressing against his, her tits mashing against his chest, her thick thigh landing over his hips. She made a sound — a soft, startled muffled noise against his shoulder.
He kissed her.
His mouth found hers in the soft afternoon light. His lips were warm. The kiss was not brutal. It was not a claim. It was the kiss of a man who had decided to be gentle with this particular woman at this particular moment because he had chosen to. Her eyes filled. The tears ran. She made a wet, overwhelmed sound against his mouth.
He pulled back.
