She didn't ask permission for the second time. She simply climbed over me, settled astride my hips, and looked down with the calm, considering expression of someone about to take a new instrument apart to see how it works.
"I'd like to lead," she said.
"Lead," I said. "Please."
She took her time about it. That's the thing nobody understands about Luna. Everyone sees the patience and thinks it's gentleness. It isn't. It's thoroughness. She ran her hands over my chest and stomach as though committing the map to memory, kissed the hollow of my throat, bit my shoulder lightly to see what I'd do, and laughed low in her chest when I swore. Her hair fell around both of us, a warm amethyst curtain, and her skin had that banked-ember heat again that makes the air near her feel like late summer.
By the time she reached down and took hold of me, I was hard and aching and very aware that she knew exactly what she was doing to me. She'd felt every second of it through the bond.
