She stared at the moon.
Her chest moved. Her tits moved with her chest. The right one had the red mark of his sole pressed into it — the full footprint shape of it, the arch and the ball and the heel visible in the flushed skin, the evidence of where she had been and what had been placed on her.
She looked at it.
She lifted her right hand.
She pressed her own palm against the sole-print on her tit.
She breathed.
He was moving.
She heard him moving before she processed the direction. The shift of his weight. The placement of his knees in the grass — one on each side of her ribcage, his legs straddling her chest, his weight settling above her with the unhurried comfort of a man taking a position he has already decided on.
She looked up at him.
From below.
