He pulled back.
Six inches.
Then pushed forward.
Her throat took him again and she made that sound again, muffled and furious and edged now with something else — the involuntary catch of a body finding a rhythm it was not asked about and beginning to answer it anyway.
Gck. Gck. Gck.
The sounds filled the mechanism room. One hundred screens documented them. The copper threads of the runic energy vessels hummed their single sustained note against the obscene wet percussion of her throat working around him, her hands pressing against his thighs with pressure that was no longer quite pushing — it was something closer to holding on.
Her saliva ran down her chin. Her eyes streamed — not crying, but the involuntary tears of a body responding to an airway being managed — running down her flushed cheeks and falling from her jaw.
He reached down with his free hand and pulled at her dress.
