The second he moves and something cold gently presses against my thigh, I know I was right to be nervous. Although, hell, I can’t deny that his fingers wrapped around his switchblade don’t look hot as hell. “Seb,” I breathe. It’s meant to be a warning, but as I watch the tip of his knife trail up my thigh, scratching my skin ever so slightly and leaving light red marks, it sounds anything but. He stops when he gets to the edge of my skirt and his eyes lift from my leg to mine. My chest heaves as they connect. I hate that he can see exactly what the sight of his knife against my skin does to
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