Thomas was pretty sure he was going to pass out before this was all over. This was touching of another kind, something different, something that he'd only done to himself and very infrequently at that.

Thomas's hips skipped and arched, pressing forward of their own volition and Thomas's touch got a little firmer in direct reaction to that. Instead of skimming, he squeezed, cupped and held Krem's breasts in his hands, trying to make a memory that not even WICKED's intervention would make him forget.

His touch, a touch that had been tentative, grew bolder, grew stronger. His fingers didn't fumble so much (though there was still some) and he traced the soft curves and muscles with his fingers reverently.