He tore her bra.
His hand had moved up under the remaining fabric of her dress at some point and found the clasp of it — cheap, utilitarian, the same practical logic as the panty — and torn it with the same clean single motion, the elastic snapping, the cups falling loose, and the full weight of her breasts swinging free.
She was not small.
The screens — all one hundred of them — reflected the sudden jolt and swing of her chest as the bra went, the weight of them dropping into unimpeded motion with the next stroke of his hips, the fullness of them catching the amber light as they bounced forward and back.
She made a sound that was not entirely anger.
"Don't you—" She grabbed at the fabric with one hand, trying to pull it back, but he was already there — both hands leaving her waist, both palms cupping the weight of her, and she lost her balance, her hands flying back to his shoulders to keep from falling, which put her chest directly into his hands.
He squeezed.
