"Tell me if it's too much," he whispered.
"Don't stop," I breathed.
And God help me, I meant it.
His fingers didn't rush.
They traced up the inside of my thigh like he had all the time in the world, like my body was a secret he wanted to learn by touch alone.
My breath hitched again, and his name formed silently on my lips.
And when he finally brushed against me, even through the thin fabric, I arched into it.
The touch wasn't daring, not yet; it was just a gentle pressure, almost like a hint of what was to come. But it sent a spark through me so powerful that I had to grip the sheets to keep myself steady.
"You're trembling," he whispered.
I didn't know if it was a question or an observation, but either way, I nodded because it was true.
I was trembling.
From want.
From the way his breath ghosted over my skin.
From the way my body seemed to anticipate his next move, cell by cell.
