Her lips parted. Her pupils were wide, dark, dazed, but she was looking back at him.
“Tell me if you wish me to stop.”
She swallowed. “I don’t.”
He held still a moment longer anyway, his finger resting at the entrance of her body, his other hand braced beside her head.
“Tell me what you like.”
Her breath shivered out. “I don’t know.”
“Let’s find out together, shall we?”
A single nod. It was enough.
He pressed forward only a fraction. Her fingers tightened on his lapel, and Gideon froze.
“Beatrice?”
She licked her lips. “Yes.”
His heart struck hard against his ribs.
“There you are,” he whispered. “Stay with me.”
“Yes.”
“My perfect, lovely girl,” he breathed, and eased into her with impossible care. “So lovely. So perfect, my sweet little archer.”
She made a sound then, low and broken and astonished, and Gideon had to fight every instinct in his body. Because she was tight and hot and yielding around his finger, and the intimacy of it—her trust, the brave little tremor that went through her…
Damn well unmanned him.
But he was determined to show her that touch could ask rather than demand.
That a man could hold back.
When he moved again, it was with a small, careful stroke, watching her face with the focus of a man studying scripture. Her brow drew together.
“Too much?”
“No.” The answer came quickly, almost surprised. “No, it’s…”
He stilled. “What?”
Her lashes fluttered. “Strange.”
A breath of laughter escaped him, quiet and helpless. “A damning indictment.”
Her mouth curved faintly despite herself.
Then he moved again, still gentle, but deeper, and whatever humor had touched her face vanished into wonder. Her hips shifted toward him, barely at all, but enough.
“There,” he murmured. “That?”
She nodded, breath catching.
He brushed his thumb above where his finger entered her, a gentle flutter meant to coax, not claim.
