She felt him feel it — the change in his pace. Slightly slower. The deliberate reorientation toward the angle she'd just communicated with her hips.
PAH.
"'Mm~—'"
That angle.
That specific angle. She didn't know the name of it — she didn't have a vocabulary for any of this — but the sound that came out of her when it was hit was the sound of something true and involuntary, the specific, helpless moan of a body that has found what it's been looking for.
PAH. PAH.
"'Mnh~♡—hn~♡—'"
Her hand dropped from her mouth. She replaced it immediately. The sounds she was making were not sounds she could afford to make in this cabin, in this bed, with Celia three feet away.
But the sounds were making themselves.
PAH.
"'HNGH~♡—'"
