She grabbed his hands, holding crooked and calloused fingers to her breasts. She ran fingertips over smooth and puckered scars, knife wounds and claw ...arks. She was pretty sure the long thin filet along his rib cage was from a werewolf, pale enough to have happened in childhood or adolescence. The short little hash marks along his forearms were identity checks, long and thin and made with a silver blade, drawing just enough blood to prove you were the only one home inside your own skin. And yet. His hand moved down her waist to her butt and she remembered why she left in such a rush. She pulled away from him. “We can’t do this, Rob,” she said, putting some distance between them. “We’ve done it already, baby, multiple times, and you liked it. Why not make that a daily thing?”“I guess you haven’t seen any of this, yet?” She held up her iPad to him with images of last night. In the photos, his hand was firmly on her ass as he leaned into her. Several images showed them leaving the event. More

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