Found hers.
Covered it.
His tongue present and immediate, swallowing the curse she'd been forming — the word 'bastard' that had become her body's automatic response to sensation, muffled now behind his kiss, the sound of it vibrating against his lips.
"Mmph — mphh — mnh—"
She kissed him back.
She did not want to talk about kissing him back.
Her hands found his hair — the same grip as before, fingers-deep, the grip of a woman who has decided that the thing destroying her is the only available anchor — and held.
'PAH! PAH! PAH! PAH!'
The mating press was a specific cruelty.
All her weight pinned, legs folded back, the angle forcing maximum depth, his cock finding places that no other position reached — pressing against the deepest point of her on every stroke, the blunt head of him knocking against the door of her womb with a persistent, rhythmic intent.
