When his fingers move inside her, her hips jerk roughly in reponse, and her loud cry echoes off the walls of the Klub.

Calming down, her strokes take on a rhythm of their own, steady but unhurried, the pads of her fingertips memorizing and cataloguing and searching for the next hot spot. The hand in his hair slides out and down the side of his face, around and under his chin to the topmost button of his shirt, which she flicks open in the same leisurely manner she did his fly.