“Hold your arms up,” I tell him, fiddling with the hem of the T-shirt he’s wearing. He does as I ask, sitting forward slightly and holding his arms above his head so I can pull the T-shirt off. He leans back against the pillows, letting me trail my fingers across the smooth, warm planes of his stomach, all the way down to his sweatpants. Gray, obviously, because Nathan Hawkins is a man who was most definitely written by a woman.
