The arch wasn't subtle. Her spine curved off those wine-colored sheets like someone had run current through the mattress, and a sound came out of her mouth that I will remember for the rest of my probably short life. Not a moan. Not a gasp. Something between a snarl and a prayer, ripped from somewhere behind her sternum that she'd been keeping locked for years.
Level four. I'd barely started.
I kept my palms flat against her ribs, letting the warmth radiate outward through her skin while her chest heaved beneath the lace bra. Her stomach contracted. Her fingers twisted into the sheets hard enough that her knuckles went bone white.
"What the fuck was that."
"That was four."
"Out of what."
"Ten."
