His free hand returned to the hem of her dress.
He was not in rush at all. He found the edge of the fabric where it had ridden up to mid thigh and rested his fingertips there, barely touching, letting her feel only the warmth of his skin against hers. The contact was so light it was almost a question.
And yet Cixi's breath caught.
His fingers began to move. A single, slow circle traced along the outside of her thigh, just above the knee, following the natural curve of muscle beneath her skin. He completed the circle and began another, slightly higher this time, his fingertips trailing the sensitive inner edge where the skin grew softer, thinner, more responsive.
Cixi pressed her face into the sheets. Her fingers curled above her pinned wrists, grasping at nothing.
Higher.
