She looked away.
At the carpet.
At her own hands on the carpet in front of her.
The milk, still dripping — thin, continuous, warm drip of it from both nipples through the fabric, hitting the carpet in two slow, widening spots.
She looked at the spots.
"I hate this," she said. To the carpet.
"I know," he said. Above her.
His cock.
She did not look up.
She felt the proximity of it — that warm, close quality of something being present at face-level in the hotel lamp-light.
She had spent twelve hours with this at various locations and in various states. Her throat knew the weight of it. Her body, in all its comprehensively trained ways, knew that quality of it.
She looked up.
At his face.
His hand — finding her hair again. The two-handed, full grip of it. The reins.
She looked at what was at face level.
