The rough pad of his finger teased exactly where she needed it, and his mouth was on her neck—the tendon, the pulse, a softgraze of teeth that made her breath stutter—and she couldn’t tell anymore which sensation was which, only that her body was climbing toward something she couldn’t slow down.
She turned her face into his.
His mouth caught the corner of her jaw, then her cheekbone, then nothing—just his breath against her skin as his fingers kept their pace with the patience of a man who had decided exactly how this was going to go.
Pleasure built in waves that came faster than she could breathe through.
She held on to his forearm as he pressed his mouth to her temple.
She was making sounds now. She didn’t know when that started. Small, broken things at the back of her throat, and each one seemed to tighten his arm around her, draw him closer, as if every sound was something he was collecting.
“Pav—” Her voice cracked on it. “I can’t?—"
“Harper.” The pressure of his touch increased, just enough.
Her world narrowed—everything pulling tight, drawing inward, until there was only one point left under his hand, one place everything in her was collapsing toward?—
“Pav.” Not a word this time, a gasp—and then there was no holding it back.
It broke through her in waves, deeper than she was ready for. His mouth stayed at her temple as his fingers gentled, easing her down without lifting away.
When her breath finally came back to her, his mouth moved from her temple to her cheek, brushed there, soft, and he turned her in his arms to face him.
She looked at him. The man she’d thought he was when she first met him, and every version of him in between.
She’d been moving toward this long before she knew his name. Before tonight, she’d thought she’d do what she always did—keep some part of herself outside of this.
A reserve. A small, sensible corner of her that stayed her own.
She lifted her hand to his face.
There was no corner left. Not one she could retreat to.
35
Pav knewhow to deny his body. He didn’t know how to deny the part of him that wanted to be held like this.
She turned in his arms. Her face, lifted to his, her cheeks flushed. Her mouth still soft from what had happened between them, her eyes on him with no question in them.
He’d read people in seven languages across three continents, and the question was always the same—what does this person want from me, and can I give it without dying? Harper’s face wasn’t giving him the question.
She was looking at him the way someone looks at something they’ve already decided about. He didn’t know the protocol for being looked at like that.
His grip was still on her waist from the turn. Heat dragged low through him, immediate and overwhelming. He locked every muscle down.
She lifted her hand.
He had the time. Time to step back. Time to catch her wrist. But didn’t.
His training, which had kept him alive until now, went quiet. Her fingers pushed through his hair, her nails teasing his scalp.
Pav remained motionless. Not from restraint. Restraint required choice. But because every possible movement ended with his mouth on hers, his hands on her skin, the last functional part of his control gone.
He hadn’t been touched, palm to skin, in years. The thought arrived with the clarity of a target acquisition, and he flinched away from it.
Not sex. Not even desire. Just contact.
Her eyes registered the flinch, but she didn’t remove her hand. Her thumb moved across his cheekbone. She slid her fingers down his jaw, the side of his neck, and onto his chest where his shirt was open. Her fingers spread there, her palm flat over the place his heart was doing something uncharacteristic.
