“…Are you naked?”
He chuckles, low and sinful.
“Naked,” he confirms. “And hard as fuck.”
My whole body flares hot.
“Go to sleep, pretty boy,” he murmurs, kissing the top of my head. “Before I do something you’re not ready for… and we’re both too tired to survive.”
Again, we fall into silence, but I can’t fall asleep. My brain won’t shut off. So, I decide to explore a little bit. I want to believe Skip’s words, but I need actions in order to believe him. But, for now, I can hope that he meant every word he said.
So, I’ll explore.
Just a little.
My fingers slip from his chest down to his stomach, brushing over firm muscle.
He shivers…just a tiny tremor.
I trail back up, feeling the warmth of his skin, the roughness of unseen scars that I hope he’ll tell me about someday, the smoothness of muscle.
When I reach his chest again, curiosity wins, and I gently touch one of his nipples.
He grunts… low… surprised… pleased?
It sends lightning through me.
I swallow hard and let my hand drift lower again…not too far, just enough to feel the sharp cut of that V-shape on his hips.
He has one…I absolutely do not.
Too many tacos.
Skip’s breathing turns uneven…controlled, but barely.
I feel powerful. Terrified. Wanted.
I lean close and brush the faintest kiss…barely a taste…against his skin.
His whole body tightens beneath me.
But when my hand inches lower, instinct slams into me like a wall.
I freeze.
Because touching him is one thing…But if I go lower…If I cross that line…He might expect me to be ready for something I’m not.
Skip feels the change instantly.
His hand comes up, covers mine, stilling me gently…not stopping me, not rejecting me, just… grounding me.
“Eli,” he whispers into the dark, voice rough and thick, “baby… breathe.”
I do. Barely.
“I’m not…” My chest tightens. “I’m not ready for… anything. Not yet.”
His fingers slide between mine, interlacing gently.
