Regina Mills

For a woman who took such pains to be clean and tidy, Regina took and, for as long as she could remember always had taken, a peculiar pleasure in the slick spill of a partner's pleasure on her hand and between her fingers. And as Neil pulsed out his orgasm, the hot, thick spurts of fluid took on a meaning she had never previously ascribed them--they signified a willingness to bend, accommodate, grow with him, even more, the desire to let him beneath that pristine mask to touch the young woman she had been who had loved horses and wind and the world, a woman seen only in glimpses now with her love of plants and patience with children.

Her preference for rougher men, not so polished or interested in niceties and hierarchies, always something of a fuck-you to Mother crystallized, here and now in Neil, as something that had nothing to do with Mother at all. Or very little. Neil helped her find herself again, helped her be at ease with those jagged bits of herself that refused to be polished and clean and civilized, and just wanted to be part of the world instead of above it.

And despite her mind working at speed to accommodate these new realizations, it didn't draw her away from him or the moment. Instead, it allowed her to sink into it, to caress his softening shaft once more before discreetly cleaning her hand on the sheets, press her lips to his damp temple and stroke his sweat-sheened back while he rode out the sensations and emotions of the moment.