Slow.
The specific, deliberate withdrawal — inch by inch, the cock retracting from her throat and her mouth, the air rushing in behind it with the immediate, desperate quality of something that had been waiting. She gasped. Once. Twice. The deep, ragged breath of someone surfacing.
She lay.
The stars above her. The moon. Her whole body flat on the sand, her thighs trembling with the specific, sustained tremor of muscles that had been at maximum tension for the last — she didn't know how long.
He stood.
She heard it before she processed it — the specific sound of weight leaving the sand, the movement of him standing above her. She tried to turn her head. Could barely. Her neck felt like something that had been thoroughly used and was reporting back on the experience.
He stood over her.
The moonlight on him. The specific, lean height of him. His cock, still flushed, hanging wet and significant over her face.
He reached down.
Ran his fingers through his own hair.
