Eventually, he hardened from his touch; though, she liked to think it was from the sound of her voice.
He was silent as he moved over her.
She closed her eyes and opened her thighs.
She didn’t want to take her gown off. His large body atop hers shielded her from the two-way mirror, but she imagined scientists on the other side, watching. She grew nauseous.
She felt his hands on her thighs. One real, one cold and unyielding. He forced her thighs to part further, so he could settle between them.
She flinched as he touched her. He stilled. The heavy weight of him settled over her, pressing her against the mattress.
"You are shaking."
"Sorry." She squeezed her eyes shut tighter. "I’ll try to stop."
The collar seemed to thrum around her neck in warning. They had to do this.
Kit’s fingers ran over the seam of her, parting her as he touched her. He was surprisingly gentle, yet it was rough to endure his touch. She was closed up, on edge.
He inserted a finger inside her. She breathed a sigh of relief to feel it was real. The fingers of his prosthetic skimmed over her shoulder. It was cold. Methodically, he touched her between her thighs, trying to get her to warm to him. But she couldn’t. She was dry and cold and shaking.
"Stop," he warned when her thighs clamped around his hand, trying to get him away.
She forced herself to still.
He kept touching her, and she couldn’t bear it. Not because it was him. Because she wanted him—she always had. It was because of the circumstances.
Using his prosthetic, Kit grabbed her hand, where it was fisted in the sheets by her hips. He pressed down on the joint below her thumb, making her release her death grip. He squeezed a little too tightly. She wondered if it was because he couldn’t feel her bones groan beneath his strength.
For just one second, when his eyes trapped hers, she felt fear. His fingers were still between her thighs, resting against her, while she was pinned beneath him. It was as though he wanted to pop open her flesh like it was the skin of a fruit, find the juice inside. The corner of his lip curled up, revealing his teeth. Then whatever war he waged within himself was won—or lost—as he forcibly took her hand, movements jerky, as he stretched her fingers out and laid her palm flat over her eyes. She saw dull darkness through the cracks of her fingers.
Kit’s lips hovered over hers, his breath hot. "Do not look." His finger traced over her core.
She felt a stirring of something in the darkness, as she let her eyes slip closed, and tried to ignore where she was, pretend a collar with a bomb wasn’t locked around her throat.
He did something between her legs, and she felt a traitorous wetness slip from between her thighs and dampen the rumpled sheets beneath her hips.
Rin made a soft sound.
Kit’s fingers stilled.
Her lips thinned as she pressed her palm more firmly over her eyes.
He resumed.
After a while, she felt his hardness nudge against her entrance, and she swallowed a sob or a moan—a strange amalgamation of both.
Kit held her thighs open, covering her body with his as he slowly pushed into her. It was almost like torture. He would push into her, then still for so long she couldn’t help but tilt her hips up slightly, chasing after him. He would then stop her with a hand on her stomach, forcing her down, before he slowly broke her open. He made a deep, inhumane sound. She was grateful she couldn’t see his face, afraid that there would be violence there.
She’d rather not know if he decided to crush her anyway.
When he was all the way inside her, his hips flush against hers, he stayed there in the silence for a few beats. Then he moved. It was methodical, fulfilling an order and nothing more.
At first, she felt nothing, just the discomfort of him moving inside her. But slowly, his hand began to move. She felt his warm, real fingers skim up the side of her thigh, then graze the scar on her abdomen before he ventured higher. When he touched her breasts, she jolted. He grazed her nipple, making it tighten.
The touch of his hand was vastly different from the feel of his length moving within her or his prosthetic holding her thigh open.
Slowly, she spread her fingers, peeking through the cracks. His eyes were squeezed shut, a look of exquisite pain on his usually cold face. Perspiration dotted his forehead, making his brown hair stick to his temples as he moved within her.
