She squirted.
The warm, sudden flood of it — her pussy releasing with the full, overwhelming force of a body that had been doing something for the first time and had reached the ceiling of what it could contain. The warm, clear rush of it, soaking the sheet, soaking the base of him, soaking the dark, thick hair where they met.
He groaned.
Low. Long. The receiving groan.
She collapsed back.
He let her thighs down. The careful lowering — the thoughtful motion of someone managing the aftermath of a position with attention.
She was gasping.
Her hands had found her belly again. Both of them. The automatic armor, clutching.
He repositioned.
The again — his hands finding her hips, turning her. The belly-hold from behind — his arm under her belly this time, the full-palm support of the round weight from below, holding it, keeping it.
She understood what he was doing.
