That’s crimson territory,” he reminded when she blinked tears, and his tone was immediate, tender. “If you need to stop—crimson. If you’re good—green.”

She steadied. “Green,” she managed. She wanted him so badly her voice shook.

Then he changed his pace. His fingers pressed inside—firm, exploring—and his thumb found that precise path. He kept the cadence mercilessly just on the edge, building her up in a slow spiral. When he finally slipped a second finger in and curled them just right, it was like a switch. Her knees buckled, her breath tore out of her. The rope bit at her skin as her body convulsed.

He anchored her through it,...