Gosto’s thumb traced the seam of my lips, featherlight yet deliberate. Instinctively, I parted them, the smallest gesture betraying my longing for more. My heart pounded like a war drum, each beat louder than the last. My breath quickened, shallow and desperate. Whatever he intended I was ready. No, more than ready.
I ached for it.
For him.
I met his gaze, those dark, obsidian eyes now licked with flickers of red flame. Heat radiated from his stare as it drifted lower to my throat, my collarbone, the swell of my breasts barely concealed by the silk of my nightgown. His fingers paused, stilling at my jawline, and in that moment of hesitation, the tension became unbearable.
Did he want me the way I wanted him?
Surely he could feel it how wildly I burned for his touch, how plainly my bod
