He pulled out.
The withdrawal was slow — deliberately slow, the drag of him through her swollen, slick walls pulling a thin, involuntary sound from somewhere in her chest that she had no name for and no desire to examine. Her inner walls clung to him on the way out the way they had on the way in, her body refusing to release what it had spent the last hour accommodating, and then he was gone and the emptiness arrived like a door swinging shut.
She made a small, broken noise.
Her hands flew to her mouth.
Too late.
He sat back on his heels between her knees, unhurried, adjusting himself with the calm efficiency of a man who had simply finished something and was now moving on to the next item on an internal agenda she had no visibility into.
Marla lay in the trampled grass beneath the oak and stared at the canopy and breathed.
