She was mid-breath for the third round.
The chamber between the previous volley and whatever was being assembled behind her teeth was precisely the window he moved through.
He didn't step back. Didn't give her room. His hand came up—one hand, his right—and his thumb and forefinger found her left nipple with the specific, unhurried certainty of a man who has located a mechanism and knows what applying pressure will produce.
He pinched.
'Hard.' Not exploratory. Not testing. The full grip of two fingers deciding something with complete commitment, the flesh between them compressed and twisted simultaneously, the blood-warm softness of her breast's skin dragged upward by the pull.
"'—HAEKK—!'"
The third volley died in her throat.
