Gideon's hand curves around her hip, solid and steadying, and Harrow trembles like some willowy, helpless thing of the Seventh--not that she entertains that thought for more than a moment, not that she remembers the blinding shame of her reaction to Gideon's infatuation back on the First. It doesn't matter now. When she feels the warm, close contact of Gideon's fingertips on her belly, unfiltered through layers of clothing or the warm water of the bath, she bites her lip hard. The skin splits and heals over before she even tastes the copper sharpness of her blood.

"Trace my ribs," she says. "Work your way up to...where you want to be." She swallows hard. "And when you get there, stay over the bra. I'll tell you if I can...when you can do more."