From the ladder of his abs to the flawless skin, Wicker is just what I told him before. A work of beauty. Reaching for him, I run my fingers over the taut muscles of his lower abdomen. His stomach caves, fingers curling in the sheets. I finally understand what Pace was saying before—the thing about my touch being like a hit of Scratch—because Wicker’s whole face collapses in rapture, breath quickening.
