She made a sound.
A small, incredibly fragile sound, caught somewhere between protest and a barely suppressed sob.
Because the honest, devastating answer to that question was sitting in her throat like a stone, and she couldn't make herself say it out loud.
Her hands, which had been pressing against his chest to push him away, slowly stopped pushing; instead, her fingers curled weakly into the fabric, holding on as another involuntary wave of arousal soaked her panties.
"Your body knows what it needs," he said, his voice dropping another register, becoming something dark and liquid and entirely inescapable. His large hand on her ass squeezed again, deliberately this time, kneading the full, soft flesh with a slow, expert rhythm. "Even if your mind is still fighting it."
His other hand slid down from her back, moving with quiet, unhurried purpose along the outside of her thigh, finding the hem of her cheap skirt and slipping beneath it without a single moment of hesitation.
