She did not look at her attendants.
Her attendants did not look at each other.
He set Miran's legs down.
Rolled her.
Not gently — the specific, both-hands, purposeful roll of someone repositioning material — and she went onto her side, one leg pulled up and forward, the other straight, and he entered her from behind in the side-lying position, chest against her back, his arm under her waist and his free hand at her chest.
The position was slow.
Not from restraint — from the specific, deliberate quality of someone who had decided that the current architecture was worth inhabiting at the pace that let him feel all of it, the full, deep, long-stroke quality of a position that allowed twelve inches of travel without acceleration.
She felt every single inch.
Every time.
