His hands found her waist. Lifted. Her body, the thick mature body that had borne children, rose off the ground. He carried her. Three steps. To the wall. To the decorative railing that lined the hallway's interior balcony. Her back hit the stone. The impact was firm but controlled. Not painful. Possessive.
He set her on the railing. Her legs dangled. Her gown, already displaced, rode up. Her thighs, pale and thick, were exposed to mid-hip. The panty, the thin cotton, was visible. The wet spot, dark and obvious, covered the center.
His hands found her breasts. Both of them. He pushed the neckline down further. Both cups of the bra were pulled. Both nipples, stiff and leaking, were exposed. He kneaded. The flesh deformed under his fingers. The milk, from both breasts, beaded and ran. The white fluid traced the curves of her mounds and dripped onto the blue silk of her gown.
"Lift," he said. The command was one word. Directed at her skirt.
