The slow pace is a blessing and a curse all in one; she has time to get used to this, each of Gideon's moves telegraphed before they happen, but the clarity of each new and careful touch means there's no ignoring it, no pretending it's anything other than what it is. Gideon's fingers curve over the thin stuff of her underwear, the warmth of her skin lost in the heat that's pooled with embarrassing quickness between Harrow's thighs, and Harrow's breath stutters.

"Gideon..."