Her body moved. Her hips shifted. Her waist twisted. The motion was instinctive. The response of a woman who is being held by a stranger and who wants to be released. But the hand did not let go. The fingers tightened. The grip held.
She felt it.
His hand. On her ass. Not her waist anymore. The hand had moved. Down. From the waist. To the hip. To the ass. The fingers found the cheek. The thick, heavy cheek. The armor was broken there too. The plate that should have covered her ass was gone. Torn away by the beast's attack. The underlayer, the chainmail, was exposed but torn. The gap in the chain showed skin. Her skin. The milky white skin of her ass, the tan of her legs ending at the crease where the armor had blocked the sun.
Her panty was visible.
