The sound came out of her in the gap, involuntary, the breath she'd been holding through the last sequence of his tongue released all at once.
Her lips were swollen. Wet. Still parted.
He looked at her face for one second — at the damp hair stuck to her temples, the tear tracks on her cheeks, the bitten-red mouth, the expression of a woman trying very hard to maintain a position that her body had stopped cooperating with — and then his hand slid off her boob and moved downward.
Over the curve of the pregnancy.
Down the soft skin of her lower belly.
Between her legs.
His fingers found the hair first.
Dense. Dark. Fully grown, the four months of untrimmed growth pressing against his palm in a thick, coarse tangle, the curls wet from the shower water and matted slightly at the roots. His fingers pushed into it — not through it yet, just against it, his palm pressing flat against the whole of it with a slow, deliberate pressure that pressed the mound beneath.
Her thighs clamped.
