She looked at him.
The searching look of someone trying to read whether a true thing had been said.
"'You understood,'" she said. Small. The recognizing quality of someone who had been seen in a panic and was registering that the panic had been seen.
"'I understood,'" he said.
She pressed her lips together again.
He moved.
His lips finding her belly — the slow, deliberate descent of them, the warm press of his mouth against the stretched, warm skin of the swell of her. Not hurried. Just — there. His mouth against her belly, the warm breath of it.
She watched him.
Her hand finding his hair. Not pushing. Just — her fingers in his hair, the light contact of someone who had arrived somewhere they hadn't planned to arrive and was standing in it.
"'Don't take stress,'" he said, against her skin. "'Just—'"
"'I know,'" she said. Her voice very small. "'I know.'"
"'—enjoy yourself.'"
She exhaled.
