She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
The tiger clan's formal vocabulary did not contain a word for being correctly quoted at a disadvantageous moment.
His hand moved.
One finger.
Forward.
Between her thighs, through the wet, finding her entrance — finding it with no difficulty at all because there was no ambiguity in where it was — and pressing.
'Pressing.'
Not entering. Just — 'noting'.
The way you note something with a fingertip before deciding what to do with it.
And then slightly further.
The resistance there — the specific, thin, genuine resistance of something that has never been pressed before — met his fingertip and pushed back.
Sabrina went absolutely still.
The growling stopped.
The canines were showing but the sound behind them had died.
Her eyes, which had been doing the sideways-avoidance thing, came back to his face and stayed there with the full, direct attention of an animal that has identified a genuine threat.
