“I don’t think finding you attractive is the problem for Thatcher,” Briar adds. “Huh?” I ask with a huff, passing the bottle in her direction. “He looks at you like he wants to be beneath your skin.” Too late for that. Far too late. He’s already there, even if he doesn’t want to be, buried deep within the cords of my veins and constantly moving through me. He’s always there.
