Clenching. The involuntary, rhythmic clenching of flesh in orgasm — gripping him, the walls of her tightening around the thick presence of him in a way that communicated very clearly, through the vocabulary of muscle and biology, the full extent of what her body thought about the situation.
He groaned.
Low. The real groan of someone receiving something.
She was gasping when she came back.
Her hands — one still at the sheet, one having found his arm at some point during the arch, gripping it. Her face turned sideways. The sideways-turned quality of someone who needed a direction that was not toward another person's eyes in the immediate aftermath.
He waited.
Then — slowly — he pulled out to the edge.
And back.
"Ngh—"
She flinched. The post-orgasm sensitivity — the too-much quality of every nerve being freshly calibrated.
"Raven—"
"I know," he said.
He turned her.
