The sound that left her body was not a scream.
It was larger than a scream.
It was the sound of fifty years of maintained composure exiting through a woman's throat all at once — the full, unmanaged, completely honest output of a body that has been waiting, without knowing it was waiting, for exactly this particular rearrangement.
It hit the waterfall.
The waterfall answered.
The mist above the pool shook.
The two women at the base of the rock shelf stirred — Rika's fingers curling, the other woman's head lifting briefly before falling again, both their insignias pulsing bright pink in response to the sound that was filling the clearing.
Raven held her.
His hands locked on her hips, her full weight hanging from the grip and from his cock buried inside her, her feet three inches off the ground, her skirt in ruins around her thighs, her tits against his chest, her mouth still open on the resonating tail of the scream.
Her body.
