In sleep he’s somehow even more gorgeous, all tousled hair and golden skin, his square jaw shadowed with stubble. When I touch my fingertip to the cursive letters tattooed across his chest he shifts drowsily, mumbles something unintelligible, and then with a soft exhalation falls still.
Beneath his boxer briefs, he’s hard.
Looking at his erection, I bite my lip. It’s just sitting there like a dare, bold and beautiful, taunting me. I have to touch it. I literally cannot not touch it, my fingers are already creeping downward over his chest of their own will.
Using the barest possible pressure, I trace the outline of the head.
Brody makes a soft sound, but doesn’t stir. His breathing doesn’t change.
Is this wrong? I think, stroking the head of his c**k through the cotton. When his c**k r
