Heavy. Full. The mounds — large even for her thick frame — settled apart with the release of the fabric, the weight spreading them outward.
Her bra — dark, simple, straining — held them compressed, but the torn robe had pulled the cups sideways, and one nipple was already exposed. Pink. Stiff, from the cool air or from fear or from something she refused to name. The areola was wide, the nub thick and prominent.
He pulled the bra down. Both cups. The fabric bunched beneath her breasts, acting like a shelf, lifting them, pressing them together. The other nipple — identical, pink, stiff — was exposed.
He grabbed them. Both hands. His large, pale fingers sank into the soft, warm flesh, and the mounds overflowed his grip — too big for his hands, which was saying something. He squeezed. The flesh deformed, bulging between his fingers, the nipples pressing outward. He needed them. Groped them. Kneaded them with the rough, proprietary grip of a man handling dough.
