Her upper body strength was real — she'd built it over years, the substitution of everything she'd lost going into the defined muscle of her arms, shoulders, and core — and she pressed with it, her palms pushing against his forearms with genuine force.
He held her legs open anyway.
Not struggling. Just holding. The position maintained without particular effort, his hands curved around the shape of her thighs in their asymmetry, her scarred left side and her prosthetic right, both parted at the angle that his hands required.
She was wearing panties.
He could see the fabric — plain, dark, practical — stretched between her parted thighs, and the unmistakable wet patch that the pheromones and the last twenty minutes had produced there without her consent or cooperation.
His hand moved.
One finger curling under the fabric at the side.
She grabbed his wrist.
He tore the panty.
