He pinched.
Her nipple—properly, between his thumb and forefinger, rolling the hardened peak and pinching—and her back snapped upward and she made a sound that she would spend a long time pretending she'd never made.
"'AANH~!'"
His fingers hooked inside her at the same moment. Curled. Pressed directly into the spot he'd catalogued last night and revisited every hour since until it was as familiar to him as his own name.
"'—Hh—don't—I'll—'"
"I know," he said.
He knew.
He absolutely knew. She could feel it in how he moved—unhurried, exact, unhurried 'because' he was exact, because he knew precisely how much she needed and was giving her slightly less on purpose.
His thumb traced tighter circles. His fingers moved deeper on the pull-back.
His mouth stayed at her neck, sucking slow and warm, adding layer after layer of sensation that she had nowhere to put.
"'Cruxius—'" His name came out broken. "'We're—the hospital—weren't we—'"
