"Don't stop," he said, his voice almost too low to hear.
She remembered her earlier fear of even looking at him. She'd snapped past it so quickly she ought to have whiplash, but it was ridiculous to fear touching him now when they'd clung together like survivors of some disaster in the shower, when she'd just slid her palms all over that inhuman skin.
And yet, she hesitated. There was a danger here, just one she hadn't identified yet.
"Please," he said, "don't stop."
How could she deny him when he begged like that? Obligingly, she stroked his back again. Daringly, she swept her hand up the back of his neck and into the damp tangle of his silky hair. He arched into her touch with a soft sigh that encouraged her. She trailed her other hand down his spine, brushing the small of his back and the inviting curve of his buttocks. He shifted, leaning forwards as if to offer more of himself to her, and then Thea’s nerves failed. He was a work of art, a miracle. You didn’t manhandle art.
She withdrew her hands, folding them in her lap, her cheeks blazing.