Down her thigh and up the inside.
If she were a narcissist, she couldn’t have done a better job of self-love. It was as if Mickey’s simple gestures were teaching her things she didn’t know about her own form.
He returned so often to the rise of her hip that she began to think that particular curve, from narrow waist to rising round, was especially spectacular. He was making her goofy in the head and she didn’t have the energy to stop it. Instead, she let herself simply enjoy the movements of his hand as he teased her body to burn.
When at long last he slipped their hands beneath her t-shirt, it was such a shock that a gasp was forced out of her lungs. The impact of the lightest brush of his flesh directly on hers left her shaky, feeling trapped.
“I—” she managed to gasp out. “I don’t—”
