He swung his cock.

Not toward her.

Just the casual, deliberate arc of a man measuring the distance between where he was and where he intended to be — the full, dense weight of it swinging against the generous softness of her right cheek, the wet slap of it landing with the sound of something that understood its own purpose.

SLAP.

"AAAHH~—"

She flinched.

Not away.

Into the pillow — face-first, her fingers gripping the flower petals, her shoulders coming up — the full-body flinch of someone bracing against the next thing while simultaneously being unable to determine from which direction the next thing will arrive.

He looked at Suresh.

Not a glance. The direct, warm, entirely unhurried look of a man who has decided that the person sitting bound on the floor is the relevant audience for the next several minutes and is addressing him accordingly.

He spread her.

Both thumbs finding the generous, full cheeks of her and pulling outward — the almond-brown flesh parting, the lamplight finding the cleft, the puckered, dark, innocent entrance of her exposed fully to the room.

To Suresh.

Whose eyes went immediately, involuntarily, completely to the thing being shown to him.

"MMMPH~—"

He tried to look away.

He couldn’t.

"Do you know," Raven said, his voice the warm, conversational voice of a man beginning a thought he finds interesting, his thumbs still spreading her, his cock still resting against the small of her back like it was waiting for a turn signal, "there is a myth that a woman always falls for a bad boy."

Preet made a sound into the pillow.

Not a word.

The compressed, wet, humiliated sound of a woman who is being discussed while being displayed and has feelings about this that she is not prepared to articulate.

"Do you know why?"

He pressed his cockhead against her entrance.

Just the tip.

Just the blunt, overwhelming, nine-inch introduction of ’this is what is about to happen.’

"HNGH~—"

She gripped the pillow harder.

Her toes curled.

The bangles pressed against each other on her wrists with a small, musical sound that was entirely wrong for the context.

"I’ll tell you," Raven said, and pushed.

One centimeter.

Just one.

The puckered entrance receiving the cockhead’s first, slow, agonizing introduction — the ring of muscle finding out for the first time what it was being asked to do, the walls of her body reporting in with the unanimous, immediate verdict of ’no, absolutely not, too much—’

"AAANGHH~!! STOP — STOP — RAVEN — TOO BIG—"

His hand found her breast.

Reaching around from behind, the full, heavy almond-warm weight of it filling his palm — and he gripped, kneaded, the fingers pressing into the generous softness of her with the firm, proprietary pressure of a man reminding a body that it has other inputs to process.

"A woman," he said, continuing, his hips applying the slow, constant, patient pressure of someone who has decided something and is implementing it without urgency, "does not fall for bad boys."

"HNGH~!! IT HURTS — IT HURTS — RAVEN—"

"She falls for men who do not flinch."

Two centimeters.

The ring of her expanding around him with the slow, tearful, biological inevitability of something that had always been going to have to do this and was doing it now — the walls clinging to his shaft with the full, desperate grip of muscle that had never been asked to grip like this before.

"IAAAANGHH~!! PULL OUT — PLEASE — I’M CRYING — I’M—"

"You’re crying," he said, warm, even, his thumb finding her nipple through the grip and twisting — the sharp, traveling signal of the twist joining the dense, burning stretch of her entrance being worked open — "because you’ve never felt this."

He pushed.

Three centimeters.

"AAAHH~!! AAANGHH~!! IT’S TOO — IT’S TOO MUCH — IT’S—"

Her hips moved.

She did not decide to move her hips.

The small, involuntary, helpless roll of them — forward, away from the pressure — and then back, into it, the body’s confused, contradictory signal of ’not this’ and ’don’t stop’ arriving simultaneously in the same motion.

Raven felt it.

His exhale.

Low. The honest, involuntary sound of a man whose body has just received information it considers significant.

"There," he said.

"What—" Her voice. Broken. "What do you mean there—"

"Your hips just told me something your mouth didn’t."

She buried her face in the pillow and made a sound.

"

Suresh was shaking.

Not crying — past crying, into the , dry, interior shaking of a man who has processed all the water out of his grief and is now operating on the compound fracture of too many things at once.

His eyes.

On her.

On the almond-brown, warm, generous width of her back, the full softness of her sides, the flower petals pressed into her skin, the bangles at her wrists.

The bangles.

He had picked those bangles.

Three weeks ago, at a shop in Chandni Chowk with his sister, standing in front of a glass case and choosing the ones that looked like something ’she’ would wear.

The bangles were now pressing against a pillow on a decorated wedding bed while another man pressed himself into the body they had been bought for.

"MMMPH~—"

He pulled against the stone.

The stone did not care.

"You see," Raven said, and Suresh hated that the voice was warm, hated that it was unhurried, hated that it had the texture of a man who was not performing or taunting but was simply saying things he believed — "a woman’s body and a woman’s words are two different conversations. Most men," he pushed another centimeter, Preet crying into the pillow, "only learn to listen to one of them."

Four centimeters.

"AAANGHH~!! RAVEN — I FEEL — SOMETHING IS — RAVEN—"

"That is your body deciding," he said, his hand kneading her breast in slow, firm arcs while his hips maintained the patient, unstoppable pressure, "that it has an opinion."

"MY BODY’S OPINION IS THAT IT HURTS—"

"That’s not the only opinion it has."

His fingers left her breast.

Traveled down.

Past her belly — the soft, chubby warmth of it — past the curve of her hip, down the full, generous inner thigh, finding the folds of her pussy with the direct, certain navigation of someone who does not need to look.

Wet.

The honest, comprehensive, irrefutable wet of a body that had sent its votes in early and was sticking by them.

His fingers pressed against her.

"MMNH~—"

"Still going to tell me it only hurts?"

"I hate you," she said.

Her voice.

The voice of a woman who is telling the truth and knows it and is reporting the additional truth that the truth is inconvenient.

"No you don’t," he said.

And pushed.

Five centimeters.

"IAAAANGHH~!!"

"The bad boy," he said, his fingers beginning their slow, counterpoint work against the swollen front of her while his hips maintained the pressure, the dual-channel assault of sensation making her body’s ability to resist anything comprehensively impossible, "is not a type. He is a function."

"AAAHH~!! HNGH~!! I — RAVEN — I CAN’T THINK—"

"You don’t need to think." His mouth at the back of her neck. "Your body is thinking."

Six centimeters.

The ring of her had moved through its first, panicked resistance and had arrived — not at comfort, nowhere near comfort — but at the grudging, biological acknowledgment that this was happening and that the walls were going to have to work with it.

"MMNH~!! AAAHH~!! IT’S — INSIDE — RAVEN — I FEEL IT IN MY BELLY—"

"I know."

"HOW — HOW IS THERE — HOW IS IT IN MY BELLY—"