Her hips met each thrust with less hesitation each time—the gap between her brain's resistance and her body's hunger narrowing, narrowing, gone.
By the third orgasm she was crying.
Not like Veronica—not the devastating, involuntary flood of a woman being broken against something larger than herself. Clara cried quietly.
Steadily.
Tears running in clean lines from the corners of her eyes into her hair, her mouth still making sounds, her hands still gripping the sheets.
She cried the way someone cries when they find something they didn't know was lost.
He came.
Deep and complete—his cock seated fully against her cervix, his cum flooding her womb directly, warmth spreading through her lower belly in a wave that triggered one final orgasm she had no voice left to express. She felt her stomach bloat slightly—just the faintest pressure, her womb filling—and her body accepted it the way it had accepted everything else in the last twenty minutes: completely, without remainder.
