Tianlong's rhythm had changed.
Not faster. Deeper. Each push driving to absolute depth, holding there for a full beat before withdrawing—like he was making a point rather than building toward something. Making her feel the full measure of it each time, making her throat 'work' around him, making that visible bulge press outward against her neck and hold before pulling back.
Sabrina's eyes had stopped making any attempt to stay level.
They drifted. Rolled. Came back halfway, then drifted again. Gold irises showing sliver beneath half-closed lids, her face gone slack in a way her face never went—all that pride and attitude requiring muscle, and the muscles had been repurposed.
Her spine, that straight spine she'd walked in with, had curved.
She was leaning into it now.
Tianlong's other hand moved.
