Harrow twists and squirms under Gideon's attention, aware of the building tension low between her thighs, the sensation she could tell herself she's never felt before, but still knows for what it is. She clings to Gideon with one hand, her fingers digging hard into the firm muscle of her shoulder, the fabric of her shirt a thin layer between her fingertips and the heat of Gideon's skin.

As Gideon's teeth scrape over her skin, Harrow comes, her breath stuttering out of her in quiet, strained pants that sound more obscene than if she'd let herself give in to the degradation of moaning. It goes on forever. It ends far too soon.