forget about it when you’re touching me.” “Like this?” Nash trailed his fingers down my chest, watching them, his gaze intense, every breath slow and deliberate. Me? I shivered like a motherfucker. “Something like that. What else you got?” Nash bit his lip and slid his hand lower, curving over my hip, the tips of his fingers brushing the macabre scars that sat higher than my waistband. “You okay with me touching them?” “If you want to put yourself through that.” “Locke.” That was it. A single word admonishment, heavy with affection.
