I tugged at the hem of his shirt, and he peeled it up his body and tossed it aside. The Badger’s shirt, on my floor. Huh.
I let him see how I studied him, not caring if I looked nervous or perverted or laughably eager.
He was pale, veins like blue lightning streaking from his inner elbow to his wrist. I traced them, ran my palm up his arm, over his throat, across his chest and stomach. He wasn’t skinny, exactly, not emaciated, but so lean I could witness anatomy at work in each breath that tensed his abdomen, each small but unmissable flex as he moved. He looked like what I’d thought he was at first — a tweaker. I wanted to watch this body as we f****d, see it drawn tight as a spring, see him clench and shudder and finally relax, a heap of muscle and sinew cast beside me on my mattress,
