Fabric

He doesn't pull it down gently. He grips it with one hand, fingers fisted in the damp fabric, and rips it apart with a single, sharp yank. The sound of tearing cotton cuts through the quiet room, sharp and final, as the fabric splits from hip to hip.

The ruined thong falls away, left dangling by a single thread before he discards it entirely, tossing the torn remnants onto the floor beside the bed. She feels the cool air against her bare, soaked mound, the absence of the fabric leaving her completely exposed to him.

She doesn't close her legs. She doesn't reach down to cover herself. She just looks at him, her chest rising and falling faster, her voice a thin, breathless whisper.

"Now the shot won't be ruined."

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