She felt it.
The back of her thighs. His hips pressed against the backs of her thighs in the standing position, his cock — still present, still the committed, upright fact of it — pressed against the back of her.
"'No,'" she said. The word of someone who meant it. "'No. Not here. He's right here. I can't— in front of—'"
"'You want to leave,'" he said.
The quiet, level quality of it.
"'Yes—'"
"'Clean me up first.'"
She processed this.
"'...what?'"
"'Either,'" he said, and the tone was completely matter-of-fact, the tone of someone presenting a binary choice, "'I clean myself inside your pussy. Or you clean me yourself.'"
She looked at her husband.
At Vikram's face, unconscious, tilted slightly toward her, the dry tear-tracks on his cheeks.
She looked at that face.
"'You—'" Her voice. The furious, tearful, completely outmatched quality of it. "'You can't— you—'"
"'Choose.'"
"'RAVEN—'"
He pushed.
