I could have my hand tucked under his shirt and pressed to the soft skin just above his waistband. At least, I imagine that it’s soft. My brain is pretty good at summoning the rest of the scene: the little trail of hair below his belly button tickling the pads of my fingers. The tug of elastic as I slip my hand into his shorts. Hot skin hardening in my palm while Vincent’s dark eyes pin me to my seat and say, wordlessly, all the things I want to hear.
