Summer tries to stop the faint whimper that escapes her throat, too late, when he moves his hands to her rear and back. Fingertips dig into his arms, and she forces herself to loosen her grip — not of fear for bruising him, but simply to shift her grip to something else. One hand tangles in the laces of his shirt, pulling at them.
He exhales sharply upon hearing Summer. He takes one hand from her bum to help her with the laces before tentatively pushing up the hem of her shirt. “Is this okay?”
She bites her lip, nodding, and strokes a slow finger along his collarbone. “Don’t stop.”