As Logan's kisses drifted down her neck, Lilly slipped her hands under his shirt, gliding across his abs before sliding around and meeting at the base of his spine. Her nails skimming in small circles, anticipating. Fingers splaying, finding and feeling his thin, white stories. Three-day Disneyland hooky. Half-inch corvette scratch. Keying 'Lilly' in the silver mustang. Layered under those? The BLKs. Calling through Aaron's little black book, asking, "Is your refrigerator running?" Red ants for Trina's sleepover. The untellables.
They'd always made her horny. Now? She only wanted to know the hands of the man who recorded the stories.