Harrow keeps count; it keeps her present, keeps her focused, marking off each rib as Gideon's calloused fingertips slide over them. When her hand is high enough, when she feels the testing scrape of Gideon's nail along the small, high curve of her tit, Harrow's breath hitches.

"Oh, fuck," she murmurs, her hips shifting, her shoulders tensing for a moment before she settles again.