His hands moved her hips.
A slow, deliberate movement — forward against his body, backward away from it, then forward again. Like he was showing her body the motion and letting it decide.
Her hips moved with it.
She felt his cock.
The full, pressing reality of it against her lower belly through the layers of fabric — not soft, not vague, not interpretable as anything other than what it was. The weight and length of it pressing against her through his trousers, the heat of it conducting through the cloth.
Her saliva ran.
She became aware of this because she had to swallow it, which she did, and her eyes went briefly crossed with the effort of managing the information her body was currently providing.
'That is,' she thought, and could not finish the thought.
Her hands were still on his chest.
She became aware that they had moved slightly — that her fingers had, without her direction, curled into the fabric of his shirt rather than pushing against it.
'Oh no,' she thought.
