"I’m not interested in the stars," I tell her seriously, "I’d rather look at you."
Always.
“Shut up, please” another giggle escapes her, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she nestles under my neck until her forehead rests on my collarbone and she stays there, breathing softly.
I trail my fingers up the curve of her hip to her waist, stroking very gently.
I can feel myself getting hard—it’s impossible not to, with her pressed up against me, her scent in my nose, her breath on my skin. But I try to ignore it. I try with everything I’ve got.
She runs her hand along my arm, caressing with the same relaxed motion as my fingers on her silhouette.
“You smell good,” she inhales against the neck of my T-shirt.
She smells better, and she’s driving me insane.
“I’m not as much of a gentleman
