Merciless fluttering lights in her stomach, and her eyes slide shut.
She's nodding. It's too fast, too anxious. But the corners of her lips lift anyway, recognizing the root of that fluttering, empty feeling as the readiness it is.
There's a tug.
Cool air.
His palm on her skin.
The whisper of falling cloth.
That whisper rings in her ears as hungry lips crash against hers, his strength all that holds her upright as he walks her backward.
She clings to him, incapable of concentration. And when her heels brush against the pallet's furs, she lets him lay her down.
