“You can decide not to.”
“I know.”
His gaze held mine.
“I want to touch you.”
Only then did I guide his hand down.
His palm settled over the front of my jeans.
My breath caught.
Even through denim, the warmth and pressure of his hand went through me.
Noah stared at where he touched me.
Then at my face.
“You’re watching me.”
“I’m paying attention.”
“For regret?”
“For any sign that you want to stop.”
His fingers shifted slightly.
Pleasure surged through my body.
I shut my eyes for one second.
Noah noticed.
“That feels good.”
“Yes.”
“Did I touch you like this before?”
“Yes.”
“Did you react that way?”
“Less gracefully.”
His mouth curved.
The fear in his expression loosened into cautious curiosity.
He pressed his palm more firmly against me.
A rough breath escaped my throat.
Heat darkened his gaze.
His fingers traced the hard shape beneath the denim, exploring rather than stroking, and my hand tightened around his wrist before I forced myself to relax.
