Fuck. His scent floods my nostrils—lime and coconut. It’s an odd scent that has me curious. He doesn’t smell like a typical guy. He smells like pie. “Why do you smell like that?” I demand, distracted by the way his hand, stained by the clay, grips my wrist. “Like what?” His brows furl in confusion. “Clay?” “No. You smell…” “What?” “Sweet,” I growl. “Like pie or the beach or summer or some shit.”
