She wonders if people are still watching. She can't look without it being obvious, and she worries that might distract them both. But how could they not watch? She can only imagine how they look, Clive folding her with ease, muscle hard at work as he fucks her.
"A smile from you could have done it," she replies, words short, but tone low and wanting. "You're perfect."
He can feel eyes on them, and it's easy not to care: he has something worth showing off. He presses deep, rocking her back and forth along the bench with every draw in and out. He feels a trail of sweat roll down the back of his neck, between his shoulder blades.
"Then I'll smile at you when you least expect it," he says. "At the market. On a walk. On my way across the hall."
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"A smile from you could have done it," she replies, words short, but tone low and wanting. "You're perfect."
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"Then I'll smile at you when you least expect it," he says. "At the market. On a walk. On my way across the hall."
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She doesn't tell him that his smiles are sometimes so rare they often are unexpected.
"I'll never survive," she pants, whimpering with the effort it takes not to be absurdly loud.