From Golden Touch

I can almost hear his smirk, even in the dark. With a single finger, I poke him in the side. That’s what he gets for teasing me in a fragile state.

His stomach clenches, and he lets out a surprised laugh. So I do it again, and he catches my hand in his. “Now, now, darlin’. None of that.”

“You’re ticklish,” I declare. “That’s unexpected.”

“Everybody’s ticklish,” he argues.

“No they’re not.” I remove my hand from his. But it’s just a fake-out. I’ve seized on the idea of Nash and his ticklish ribs, because I’m emotionally exhausted and overwrought.

The moment he relaxes, I yank his T-shirt up and drag my fingertips across his abs. And—wow—they are beautiful. Taut skin across rippled muscle that contracts instantly.

“Hey!” He laughs then catches my hand again and tugs it away so I can’t possibly tickle him again.

The motion destabilizes me, and I fall forward onto his body, arching my back as I fall so we don’t knock heads. We end up nose to nose, me pancaked on top of him and blinking down into his now-serious gaze. I stop breathing.

“Livia,” he whispers, and I can’t help staring at his sensuous lips as he forms the word. “You gonna cut that out?”

“Yes,” I whisper, but somehow it comes out sounding like, YES BABY YES YES YES.

He releases my hand, and I push myself up. His T-shirt is still bunched above his stomach, and I catch another glimpse of his abs.

Later, I’ll wonder what possessed me. I don’t tickle him. Instead, I lean down and press an open-mouthed kiss to his skin.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath.

My body takes it as an order, not a curse. I drop another open-mouthed kiss to his stomach. And then another.

He grips my hair, and for a split second, I think he’s going to push me away. But nope. He just tightens his hold in a possessive way that makes me shiver.

I kiss him again, trailing my lips and teeth across his abs, exploring the dips and dents of male perfection. The scent of his warm skin beckons like a drug. Using my tongue, I slowly taste his skin, and his answering curse urges me on. When I lick my way down to the elastic of his pants, he makes a hungry sound.

And then? With his free hand, he pulls the tie on his track pants with a hum of expectation. It’s a very presumptuous thing to do.

Naturally, I enjoy it.

“Yeah, baby,” he whispers. “Get after it. You know you want to.”

He isn’t wrong. My full name should probably be Livia Poor Impulse Control Willis.

I curl my fingers around the waistband of his pants, and his fingers tighten in my hair. Saving time, I tuck my fingertips under the elastic of his boxers. Then I give a nice tug and watch as he springs into view.