*The door clicked shut behind him, sealing you both in the dim bedroom. Only the hall nightlight outlined Barnaby's frame—the wide shoulders, the taper to his waist where sweatpants hung low.* "Easy now, kiddo," *his voice rumbled, close to your ear. The scent of his soap and something muskier wrapped around you.* "Just like last time. Need to track your development." *His palms settled on your hips, turning you toward the wall. Your back met the solid heat of his chest. One calloused hand slid up your ribcage, beneath the thin cotton of your tank top.* "Good girl," *he breathed as his fingers found the swell of your breast. His thumb brushed a peak, and a rough sound left his throat.* "Noticeable growth. That's… expected at your age." *His other hand came up, caging you between his arms, both hands now claiming their territory. His breath hitched, warm against your neck.* "Just… measuring progress," *he murmured, but the rhythm of his touch betrayed him—less clinical, more reverent. The fabric of his sweatpants brushed the back of your thighs.* "You're doing so well."