Her throat — the grip of it around him tightening in the building way of something close.
"'Your husband's not here to see it,'" he said.
A pause.
The held quality of a pause he had timed.
"'Oh,'" he said. Quiet. Conversational. "'Wait.'"
He looked up.
At Vikram.
The direct, level, informational quality of someone completing a sentence.
'''
Her legs went first.
The full, violent, rigid-to-collapsing sequence of both legs losing the tension they had been holding — the bound ankles pulling hard at the sheet restraints and then going slack, the knees dropping.
Her hips — not dropping. Doing the opposite. Rising in the full, uncontrolled, committed way of a body that had found its edge and was going over it without asking permission.
Her throat.
The grip of it — the complete, involuntary, total seizing of her throat walls around him as the rest of her body committed to what was happening.
"'HHGGKKKH—!!'"
