The water had gone lukewarm an hour ago.
Neither of them had noticed.
Or — she had noticed, in the distant, filed-and-ignored way that a body notices things that are not the most pressing input it is currently receiving. The water temperature was somewhere below her threshold of immediate relevance.
Everything below her waist was the most pressing input.
Everything below her waist had been the most pressing input for a sustained period that she had stopped counting because the counting required a part of her brain that was no longer available.
She was bouncing.
She knew she was bouncing.
She knew it the way you know your own feet are moving when you are walking — the awareness of the motion without the full top-down ownership of it. Her thighs were doing the work. Her knees, bent at the side of him in the wide, exhausted splay of a woman who had found a position her body could sustain and was sustaining it past the point where sustaining it was strictly advisable.
His cock.
