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He’s going to see my scar.
Of course, he’s already seen it. Didn’t seem to mind it either.
So, I shouldn’t mind it.
Right?
The fabric brushes against the tough patch of skin and I sit bolt upright, grabbing for the green, cotton skirt to hold it in place.
“Wait.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dash
I wait. Even though I’m so close, dying to reach the hidden center of her, Paige’s worried voice leaves no room for argument.
“Here. You can…” She removes the fabric from my hands, gripping one side tight against her thigh, while she inches the other up farther. Offering me what I want but in an odd maneuver.
“What’s wrong, Paige?”
She blinks at me. “Nothing. Just…you don’t need to push the whole thing up. The skirt is pretty loose and flowing. This works just fine. Feel free to continue.” She grimaces, probably realizing just how oddly formal her words came out.
I sit up, staring down at her as I try to figure out where I veered off course. My eyes draw back to her fisted hand, pressing into her covered thigh.
That’s when I remember the scene in the dressing room. Funny, I completely forgot about the scar.
“Paige. I’ve already seen your leg. And FYI, I like your leg. Every inch of it.”
She huffs out a sigh. “Come on, Dash. You don’t have to lie to me. I’m already in your bed.”
I glare at her, determination fueling my hand as I push aside her fist and delve my hand under her skirt.
She gasps and moves to pull her leg away, but I keep a firm grip, the beginning of her scar tickling my palm.
“I’m not lying. Your scar is a part of you, so I like it. I want to feel it, you know why?” Slowly, I start to slide my hand farther under her skirt, my thumb tracing the tough skin deliberately.
“Why?” Her voice comes out on a whisper, her stare baffled.
“Because, when I’m touching it, that means I’m touching you. And when I’m tracing it,” my fingers continue to creep upwards, “I know I’m approaching a fucking fantastic destination.” The rough skin ends, giving way to smooth just as I settle on her hip, gripping the cushion of one of her luscious curves.
“Now, will you lie back down and let me have what I want?”
Paige plops back on the bed dramatically, and I can’t help chuckling. But the laughter leaves me when I slide my hand to the apex of her thighs and stroke my fingers over the heat of her.
She’s damp. For me.
“Fuck me,” I whisper to myself, lost in the sensation of her arousal coating my skin.
“Maybe. If you’re good at this next bit.”
Her breathy comment makes me laugh again, and I hide my evil smile by kissing my way up her inner thigh. The skin is soft and silky like a pillow. If I weren’t so turned on, I’d be tempted to lay my head down and take a nap right here. Maybe afterward, once we’re both spent, I can convince her to let me use her lap as a cushion.
For now, I’m happy to focus on her center. She has on a simple pair of white cotton underwear, made sexy by the lace edges. Before tugging them down, I press my mouth against the damp fabric, grinning even broader at the way she shifts and fidgets under my exploration.
Needing to see her, I hook my fingers in her waistband and pull the panties off. One edge catches on her toe, so I take a moment to untangle them. Paige deserves care and attention, not a mad dash to the finish line. She’s a country road, not a race track.
And there she is, pink folds, slick with arousal, framed in blonde curls the same buttery yellow as her hair.
