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A few inches of skin showing, he rotates me until he’s staring at the back of my left hip. He runs his thumb over the waistband of my shorts, then folds down the fabric, exposing another inch or so.
Bending my toes, I close my eyes.
Warm lips replace his thumb. Wildfire licks my skin.
Opening my eyes, I suck in a loud breath.
“Jess?” His hot breath against my hip fans the flames.
“Ye-ss.” Hard to talk when I’m biting my lip.
“Do you want to draw me a diagram and put red X’s where you don’t want me to go?”
Red X’s. On body parts. I shake my head no.
“Okay.” He uncaps the marker and lets the thin tip hover over the trail his lips took.
A trail that’s burning up. I reach for a voice that doesn’t sound high. Because that’s how he makes me feel. “You better not write—Gabe was here.”
“Wasn’t planning on being quite that obvious.” Very carefully, he touches the marker to my skin and signs his name.
I peek over my shoulder.Gabriel Alexander Wadeflows across my hip in small, sweeping letters. Then he blows on the ink. That burn eclipses into a delicious shiver that chases across my body.
He fixes my waistband, pushes my tank higher, lingers with a year-long kiss to my lower back, then grips my hips and turns me forward.
Good thing his hands are holding me. Or my jellied self would dissolve through the floor.
“Your turn?” He dangles the Sharpie. “No one’s ever signed me.”
“Ever?”
“Nope. No tattoos either.” He smirks. “Virgin skin.”
“That’s about all that’s virgin about you.” I snatch the Sharpie.
“Don’t feel like you have to stick to the Boy Scout code,” he says.
The thought of signing him where he signed me triggers a flush that runs beyond skin deep. Taking his shoulders, I rotate him and search for a Girl-Scout place to brand my name. My gaze and my hand land on his shoulder blade.
Before I can ask, he snags the neck of his shirt and pulls it over his head.
I’ve seen him shirtless before, but I’ve never let myself stare. I stare now. At all that golden skin stretched over defined muscle. Touching his bare back is more intimidating than touching his shirt. But I skim a finger across his right shoulder blade.
It’s his turn to shiver. And that makes me smile.
Raising the marker, I do what I told Gabe not to and scrawl—Jess was here. Punctuate it with a smiley-face heart. Then power-up my brave and kiss my name on his back. Instantly, I understand why he’s so into putting his lips on my bare skin.
His inhale comes sharp, and before I can do it again, he’s turning to face me.
Holy crap. I forget to breathe. He’s lean, but well-defined. Every hour spent running, every rep of weightlifting proudly clings to his body. My gaze hits his chest. Strays to his abs. Moves to his biceps. Dances back to his abs and sticks.
This boy is beautiful. And he’s kind of mine. A thousand butterfly wings brush against my stomach. I lift my face to his warm chocolate eyes.
He slants an eyebrow—but there’s no ego in the gesture, there’s too much fire his eyes. “You probably shouldn’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” I clear my throat, feet soldered to the carpet, gaze glued to him.
“Like you want to touch me.”
