The sound came from her before she could suppress it.
His touch through the thin fabric—one finger, then two, pressing against the heat of her with the same precision that characterized his cooking and his conversation and every other thing he seemed to do—and she felt how 'wet' she was, felt it with humiliation, the fabric damp and hot and giving nothing away about dignity at all.
Viktor's mouth pulled back from hers just enough to look at her face.
She turned her head.
"Don't—" she managed.
He pressed again, two fingers curling, and her hips moved involuntarily—the kind of movement the body conducted independently, the deep muscle responding before the mind could intercept.
"'Hngh'—hahh—"
"Very warm," Viktor observed, his voice close to her ear.
"'Don't talk.'"
"And quite—"
"'Don't.'"
He moved the fabric aside.
