I nod, but she doesn’t move her thumb. Instead, she presses down until the tip is in my mouth, almost between my teeth. I touch it with my tongue, and her eyes darken. I want more than this tiny taste, more than I can have. I don’t know how long we stand like that—her thumb between my teeth, her face in my hands, our bodies so close that I can smell her lemon-and-lavender soap.

I’m not sure I take a single breath until she steps back and my hands drop helplessly to my sides. She drags her bottom lip between her teeth and holds my gaze as she unbuttons her shirt and lets it drop from her shoulders, and my situation with the oxygen shortage doesn’t improve a bit.

My mouth goes dry at the sight of her smooth ivory skin, her breasts cupped in the simple white cotton of her bra. I follow her hands, watching as they unbutton her jeans and push them down her hips.

I’ve fucked up so many times where Shay is concerned, and tonight she came to me upset, grieving. Maybe the right thing to do is to tell her to keep her clothes on. Maybe letting her strip makes my sins cross over into unforgiveable. But I’m willing to accept every label, every hit to my character and blow to my ego if it means I get to touch her.

She steps out of her jeans, and I can’t take my eyes off her. I love that her bra is simple, nearly virginal, love that her panties aren’t a match but a bright pink. They’re cut to sit high on her hips and barely cover her ass. I love how easy it is—how uncalculated. She didn’t put on her sexiest panty set and come here to seduce me. She’s just wearing whatever she’s wearing. But who am I kidding? She could be wearing fucking pantaloons and a chastity belt under her clothes, and I’m sure I’d still be hard as a rock watching her strip for me.

I can’t help but notice the changes, though. I memorized her with eyes, hands, and mouth in Paris, and I know every inch of her. She’s lost weight. Too much. I want to ask if she’s okay, if she’s been sick—Carter hasn’t said anything, but damn, she’s so frail—but I don’t. She’s always been so self-conscious about her appearance, and I don’t want her thinking she’s not beautiful when she takes my breath at any size.

“Say something,” she whispers, and I realize I’ve just been staring, trying to catalogue every change while her hands shake at her sides.