Her mind went white for a half-second.
He was pushing her face toward his lap. His hand was firm but not rough — the grip of someone entirely certain about direction, simply applying it, her body following before her brain had assembled a full sentence about whether it consented to the maneuver.
The sheet adjusted. She went under it.
The curtain of fabric fell.
Vivian was on her knees on the floor, in the gap between the bed and the wall, with Viktor sitting above her and the sheet draped over his lap like she wasn't there at all.
His cock — still thick, still present, the slick warmth of her still coating him — was directly against her face.
She stared at it in the dark under the sheet.
The bedroom door opened the rest of the way.
