The pressure builds low--dense and wet and frantic. It pulses up through my belly, my chest. My nipples ache, tight and exposed in the cool air, brushing nothing but ghost heat. I imagine his mouth. His hands. The places he could put them. The places he won 't.

Not yet.

A sound escapes me--half gasp, half moan--and it startles me. My thighs tense. The room is too quiet, too watchful, and now I'm panting into the silence.

"Don't stop," Steven says.

I obey. My palm presses harder. My fingers slip beneath the elastic, skin to skin now, and I bite my lip as I find the spot that makes me...