Her hand brushes him, and Sesshoumaru stills.
She bites her lip, not quite looking at him. Her fingertips dance over the bones of his pelvis and tops of his thighs, brush delicately over his abdomen before once again inching lower.
Unspoiled anticipation paints her cheeks, and she's a pretty, becoming thing, rouging in the darkness with shyness on her lips. "I've never done this."
"It does not matter," he says, throat drying at her admission.
Her modesty, like hot iron, glows in the dark. "Can I…"
He closes his eyes, swallowing hard. "Yes."
And then, tentative and clumsy, she does.
