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I lie beside her on the chaise, and for a while neither of us seems interested in hurrying. I kiss beneath her ear and discover the shiver that runs through her. My hand follows the curve of her waist, then lower, while Rachel’s fingers continue their slow exploration of me.

When she guides my hand lower, I follow.

Her body is hotter there, softer than anywhere else I’ve touched, and so wet that my fingers slide unexpectedly through the slick folds between her thighs. I stop, startled.

“Are you okay?”

Rachel’s breath catches with something that sounds almost like a laugh. “Very.”

“You’re wet.”

“That means I like what you’re doing.”

The answer sends heat through me so quickly that the rhythm in my chest deepens. I move my fingers again, slower now, feeling how easily they glide through the wet softness there.

My fingers slow. The shape of her is more intricate than anything I could understand by looking. Smooth folds part beneath my fingertips, slick and warm, each small change in pressure giving me a different sense of her. I let myself explore, tracing rather than pressing, until Rachel’s breathing changes.

Then my fingertip brushes a small, firmer place tucked between the slick folds.

Rachel makes a low sound in her throat.

I stop. I have heard her laugh, sigh, gasp, and moan. I have never heard that sound.

My finger returns to the same place, barely touching this time. I circle it once, so lightly I almost wonder whether she can feel me.

Her thighs open wider.

“Locke.”

The way she says my name makes me want to earn it again. I touch her again, a little more firmly. Too firmly. Rachel catches my wrist and eases the pressure without pulling me away. “Softer.”

I nod, though I’m not sure she sees it. Then I go back to that small sensitive place with only the pad of one finger, circling slowly until her breath turns uneven.

Her hand slides from my wrist to my forearm.

I change the motion, stroking instead of circling, then return to the one that made that strange low sound come from her. Rachel’s head tips back.

Her fingers tighten around my forearm.

“Don’t.”

I freeze.

Her eyes open. “Don’t stop.”

Heat hits me hard enough that for a moment I can’t think beyond her hand gripping my arm. But I don’t stop.

I keep the touch light, then a little firmer, finding the pressure she wants without losing the softness of it. Her hips begin to move beneath my hand, small at first, then with more urgency, and I follow because I want to feel every change in her.

Soon Rachel is no longer moving my hand at all. She is holding on to my shoulders.

The knowledge that I am doing this to her jolts pleasure through me even though she is barely touching me now.

“Locke.”

I have never heard my name sound like that. I keep going.

Rachel is usually deliberate. Now her breathing loses its rhythm, her hips move faster against my hand, and the sounds coming from her no longer seem chosen.