“Again,” he agreed.
His hold at the curve of her hip remained steady, his mouth gentle against her skin, but the rest of him—the rigid set of his shoulders, the roughness in his breathing, the hard length of him still pressed against her—betrayed how fiercely he fought himself.
Which was why, perhaps, as though it was the most natural thing in the world, Beatrice slid her hand down between them. And the moment her palm settled over his trousers, Gideon went utterly still.
“Beatrice…”
Beneath her palm, the hard plane of his stomach tightened. His breath caught. His hips shifted toward her before he stopped himself.
As though even now, every part of him was waiting to learn what she would choose.
“You are so careful with me,” she whispered. Even before he knew… He’d let her have all the control.
Gideon shut his eyes briefly. “I must be.”
“Perhaps,” she said softly, her hand moving just slightly, dipping lower with a boldness that surprised even herself, “you deserve care as well.”
His breath left him in a low, broken sound. He dropped his head against her shoulder, and for one breathless moment she thought he might stop her.
Instead, his hand slid into her hair, holding her firmly in place as though he couldn't trust himself to do anything else.
“Bea.” His voice dropped. “You can’t possibly know what that does to me.”
“Can’t I?” she whispered.
Her answer seemed to undo him further.
Beatrice felt it immediately—in the sharp pull of his breath, in the low vibrations running through his body beneath her hands. Encouraged by it, she let her palm move more firmly over him, learning the shape and pressure of him through the fabric of his trousers.
Gideon groaned softly against her throat.
Not calm now. Not controlled.
The sound pulsed straight through her.
And so she continued, following her instinct more than her knowledge.
She noticed every reaction he gave her—the tightening of his hand in her hair, the uneven rhythm of his breathing, the involuntary shift of his hips when her touch grew firmer.
“Beatrice…”
His voice was truly wrecked now.
She had never heard anything like it.
She shifted, pressing herself against the hard line of one of his thighs, seeking relief from the unbearable ache building inside her.
Good heavens. How had wanting turned into need?
Gideon’s mouth found her throat again, rougher, less careful. His teeth grazed her skin and the sharp sensation pulled a helpless sound from her.
He thrust forward against her hand.
“Fuck—” The word broke from him raggedly, followed by a strained, “I’m… Bea…”
What little control he had left shattered.
She felt it in the powerful movement of his body against hers, the hard pressure of him driving against her palm and stomach, and breaths that were harsh and uneven beside her ear.
