Gently, I traced the scar and surrounding bruising with my fingers. “Does it hurt when I touch you like this?” “It hurts,” he replied, tone hoarse. Exhaling a heavy breath, I stroked his thigh and fought the urge to press a kiss to his cut. “For an entirely different reason,” he croaked out. And that’s when I noticed what I was doing—what I had been doing for the last minute or so. I was sitting on my knees between his legs, stroking his inner thigh, trying to soothe his ache away. My eyes flicked to the danger zone and my mouth ran dry. So that’s why people referred to it as pitching a tent.
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