I did not reach for him.
“What kind of help?”
He swallowed.
“I don’t know how to ask without sounding absurd.”
“You won’t.”
“Your hand.”
“Where do you want it?”
His eyes flicked toward his hips.
“On me.”
I let out a slow breath.
“Over your clothes first?”
“Yes.”
“Green?”
“Green.”
The word steadied us.
I shifted closer.
Noah wore thin sleep pants. The hard shape of him pressed visibly against the fabric, and the sight brought back every memory I had been keeping under control.
I placed my palm over him.
His breath broke sharply.
I froze.
“Color?”
“Green.”
“Pain?”
“No.”
“Fear?”
“A little.”
“Do you want me to hold still?”
“No.”
I moved my hand slowly.
Not a full stroke.