His hand — resting on her back — moved. Slowly. Downward. Over the layered silk of her robes, over the curve of her waist, over the swell of her hip.
His fingers traced the shape of her body — the slender waist, the curved hip, the round, firm swell of her ass beneath the silk. He squeezed. Gently. The flesh was firm, toned by cultivation, the curves present but refined.
She didn't notice. Her face was buried in his shoulder. Her tears were flowing. Her body was trembling.
His hand continued. Rubbing. Squeezing. Possessive. His fingers mapped the shape of her ass through the silk, the curves of her cheeks, the cleft between them. His hand moved lower — over the back of her thigh, to the hem of her robe, to the silk fabric that covered her leg.
