He pulls his sweats up my legs, warm fingertips skimming my skin along the way, up my calves, my thighs, while his eyes follow their trajectory almost ravenously. By the time he’s cinching the drawstrings, I’m sweating. When he’s done, Zac shuffles toward the tent opening. “I’ll be right back.” “Where are you going now?” “I need a minute.” “For w—” “I need a minute, Mel.” Zac turns with a look so dark and frustrated over his shoulder that my breath catches in my throat. Holy fuck.
