“Noah.”
“Too much?”
“No.”
“Then why did you say my name like that?”
“Because you are touching me.”
“That was the point.”
A quiet laugh escaped me.
He shifted closer.
His palm moved again, slow and uncertain. Pleasure rolled low through me, sharpened by the knowledge that each touch was his decision, given without memory and without debt.
I wanted to kiss him.
I wanted to put my hand beneath his shirt and feel the warmth of his skin.
I wanted much more than his recovering body could safely give.
I stayed still.
Noah watched every reaction cross my face.
His thumb pressed once along the length of me.
My breath broke.
His eye darkened.
“Did you like when I teased you?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Enough that answering honestly would encourage you.”
“That sounds useful.”
“It was often disastrous.”
His hand moved once more.
Then fatigue swept across his face.
It happened in an instant.
His gaze lost focus. His shoulders sagged. The hand over me went still.
I covered it with mine and lifted it away.
“That’s enough.”
“I did not say stop.”
