I followed the order.
Not the one about their names. The other one, the one she hadn't said out loud but had communicated through the grip of her thighs on my hips and the way her fingers laced behind my neck like she was anchoring herself to something she'd waited nine years to touch.
Misato rolled her hips once, slow, testing, and the friction of her tactical pants against my bare stomach sent a jolt through me that started at the navel and ended somewhere behind my eyes. Her breasts swayed with the movement and I could not look anywhere else. She'd hidden these from me. For nine weeks she had stood two feet away during morning drills in a compression top that must have been engineered by someone who hated joy, and the whole time she'd been carrying breasts that made everything I'd seen at this academy feel like a warmup act.
