I set the glass down with a sharp click against the mahogany desk.
Adjust myself through my pants.
The pressure is almost painful, my cock straining against the fabric, demanding attention I won't give it.
Not yet.
Not until I can think clearly.
Not until I understand what the hell just happened to my carefully constructed plans.
I told her I wouldn't take anything for myself.
That this was about her, her pleasure, her discovery.
About showing her that her body wasn't shameful, that desire wasn't sin, that she had a right to feel good without guilt or fear or the weight of the Sanctuary's lies crushing her.
And I meant it.
Every single word.
But fuck, watching her respond—watching her body do exactly what I knew it would do, watching her fight the pleasure with every ounce of her Sanctuary training and then surrender to it completely, watching her come for the first time in her twenty-three years—that was the most erotic thing I've ever experienced.
More erotic than any of the experiences I'd had before.
More intense than anything I'd bought or negotiated or controlled.
Because this was different.
This was Eden, who flinches when I come too close, learning that touch doesn't have to mean pain.
This was Eden, who was taught her body was shameful, discovering pleasure.
This was Eden, who has every reason to hate me, trusting me enough to let me show her.
And I didn't even touch her skin.
Didn't kiss her.
Didn't undress her.
Didn't slide my hands beneath the silk of her pajamas or feel her bare flesh or do any of the thousand things I wanted to do.
Just showed her what her body could feel with gentle vibration over her clothes.
And nearly lost my goddamn mind in the process.
I want to go back.
The urge is overwhelming, almost irresistible.
Want to knock on her door right now.
Want to see if she's okay, if she's processing what happened, if she's lying in that bed touching herself with the vibrator I left on her nightstand, exploring on her own now that she knows it's possible.
But I can't.
Can't scare her.
