She could no more lie still than she could stop breathing. His hands move over the curve of her hips, and she's already opening to him, her head falling back and a quiet stream of appreciative profanity falling from her lips. Her inner thigh takes over from her hands, needing as much skin to skin contact as she can manage. She's not even aware she's wearing a robe any longer.

All she feels is the heat of his touch, the soft wetness of his mouth on her belly, ghosting over puckered skin marking the scar he gave her. There's a dull throbbing between her legs, and it's driving her spare, waiting for the next kiss, the next caress.

'Gene...'