Her words came as if her body were replying on its own, becoming habitual and addicted to his hands as he spread her legs each time.
The deliberate, gentle spreading — his hands at her inner thighs, the slow, careful push of them apart. Her legs offering the sleep-weight resistance of limbs that were not conscious enough to resist and not heavy enough to prevent the spreading.
They opened.
He looked at her.
The dark, thick hair. The warmth still coming off her. The warm evidence of him still there, the damp and warm testimony of the first time.
'1/10,' the system had said.
His hand found her belly.
The flat, warm, deliberate placement of his palm over the round, warm swell. The held-breath feeling of the living warmth inside pushing back.
He positioned himself.
