The back of my skull. “I’m so fucking hung up on you, it’s not even funny,” I confess quietly, and then press a kiss to her belly button. She shivers, fingers gliding down the back of my neck. I don’t expect her to say anything. Or to feel the same way. I’m too old. She’s too young. Too good for me when it comes down to it. Which is why it sends me reeling when she whispers, “Wherever you’re hanging from … I think I’m on the same hook.”
