The jet hit him in the face.
Not a drop. Not a bead. A 'stream'—thin and pressurized, warm, arcing upward from the compressed nipple and striking his cheek. He turned his face, opened his mouth, and the next stream hit his tongue directly.
He swallowed.
"Mmm." His thumb dragged across the nipple, milking it deliberately. Another arc. Into his mouth. Down his throat. "'Tastes good.'"
"'Hnngh—!!'" Akane's sound came from somewhere below her ribs—a place that had nothing to do with choice. Her hands flew to cover his—not stopping, 'pressing', forcing his grip tighter on her own breast because her body had made a decision her mind hadn't signed off on. "'Stop—it's too—hnngh—sensitive—I can't—'"
He pulled the nipple upward. Stretched it. Held it.
