Donnelly scratches the side of his jaw, and I try not to imagine running my palms over his stubble. The way he exists is sexy. It’s the confidence in himself, in who he is. His biceps look cut and sculpted in his tight black AC/DC shirt, and I have trouble not picturing those arms snug around me. Sometimes, in quiet moments, I pretend we’re a rare species that needs physical touch from a soul mate to survive. Connecting and reconnecting forever. And recently, I’ve been dying, starved, and longing for Donnelly to run his hands all over me.
