He released Lira's hair. His other hand found Sera's face — turning it toward him, his fingers cupping her jaw, his thumb brushing her lower lip. He kissed her. Hard. His tongue met hers, and Sera — the practical one, the analytical one, the one who managed crises and counted figures and did not cry — made a sound that was nothing like a moan. It was a whimper. Small, broken, the sound of a wall crumbling.
While he kissed Sera, his hand found Lira's breast. The left one — the fuller one, the heavier one — and he kneaded it with his palm, his fingers closing around the nipple, pinching, rolling, pulling. Lira gasped against his shoulder, her body pressing into his hand, her internal voice a cascade of fragmented sensation:
'His hand — on my — he is touching — his fingers — the nipple — it hurts but it also — I have never — no one has ever — his mouth is on Sera's — he is kissing my sister while touching my—'
