“You’re unreal,” I breathe. Then I wish I hadn’t said that out loud, because it’s extremely embarrassing.
It’s not wrong, though. This entire night is unreal. How are we here? Why am I doing this? Who am I? Who is he?
Then Stefan leans back and pulls his sweater over his head in one fluid motion, and that’s why I’m doing this. His tanned skin is a canvas of ink and scars. Twisting, turning, faded, stark. I could spend days touching every inch of him.
He gives me a few seconds to trace the lines of a tattoo that curls around his collarbone and over his shoulder before he brushes my hand away and tugs at the belt of my robe.
“You have too many clothes on,” he scolds.
I lift an eyebrow. “You’re getting ahead of yourself.”
“Pretty sure we passed that exit a few miles back.” His fingers b
