He lifted.
The specific, effortful lift — the slight buckle of his hips upward, his weight shifting, the slight exhale of effort. She had her hands at his waistband and she pulled — the trousers and the underwear together, the specific, committed motion of someone who had made a decision and was executing it.
It swung free.
'PAP.'
The impact was warm, specific, and entirely unexpected — the weight and heat of it landing flat against her left cheek with the casual authority of something that had not been introduced to the concept of hesitation.
She froze.
Her head turned slightly with the contact. Her hand came up — the automatic, reflexive gesture, pressing against her own cheek. The warmth of it. The specific, slick quality that had transferred to her skin, the pre-cum, clear and thick, the consistency of something that had been accumulating under pressure.
She looked at her fingers.
Then at him.
