Her hands flew to his thighs, pressing flat against the solid muscle, not pushing — her arms did not have the strength to move him — just anchoring herself.
He held her there.
Not past her capacity. Just at the edge of it, where her throat was full and her eyes were watering and her body was making every automatic protest and she could not speak or breathe cleanly and was entirely, completely at the limit of what she could accommodate.
She felt his other hand.
It landed on her breast.
Over the 'dudou' fabric — his palm spreading across the full, soft weight of her left breast and closing. Squeezing. The flesh compressed under his grip, the heavy mound deforming between his fingers, pushing out over the edges, the stiffened nipple pressing hard against his palm through the thin silk.
He kneaded once. Thoughtfully.
'Soft,' he registered. 'Dense underneath from cultivation, but the surface is —'
He pressed again.
