His eyes were creasing and his lips were curling. Tears, she realised, her mind slow, fear unfurling in the bowl of her pelvis. He reached out, his hand touching her thigh. His fingers crept at her, and she felt her eyes swivel in her head, looking down at his clutching extremities. She heard him talking, saw him grasping, and noticed how her flesh puckered beneath his fingers. In between the creases of their sheets, he told her what he had done. She lay broken. Her body, naked, looked as if it had been spilled.
Such gross pretentious writing. Also I hate that the author plays coy about “what he had done” and all the reviewers pretend it’s a mystery. He cheated on her. Come on guys.
