His hand, at the small of her back, had moved. Slid lower. Past the waistband of her underwear. The warm, dry palm of him against the wet, cold fabric, then below it, against the skin of her lower back and the beginning of her backside.
She made a sound that was not a word.
"'Is it?'" he said again.
"'That's—'" She breathed. "'That's not—'"
"'Preet.'"
Her name in his voice.
The specific, immediate effect of your own name spoken by a voice that is carrying something particular in it.
"'Yes,'" she said.
The word barely a word. Aimed at his chest.
He smiled against her hair.
She felt it.
"'Good,'" he said.
His hand moved further down.
She gasped.
The water around them. The moonlight on the surface. His hands on her, moving over her with the specific, learning quality of someone who is taking inventory with their palms.
He turned her.
