The full, warm, already-soaked quality of it — the fabric completely saturated with the evidence of what had been building, and she touched it and went still for half a second with the understanding of it, and then her fingers pressed in.
The sound she made.
She clapped her free hand over her mouth before it fully escaped, but the shape of it was already in the air — the small, surprised, involuntary quality of someone receiving the sensation of their own touch in a location that had been waiting for attention with considerable impatience.
She pressed harder.
The friction of her fingers through the fabric against the swollen, desperate heat of her pussy, and the sensation of it ran up through her core with the quality of something that had been denied for thirty-one years and was refusing to be denied for another minute.
Her other hand went back to her breast.
