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Summary
Leisurely, one finger glides up the expanse of skin exposed by the undone buttons at the top of his shirt. It scorches a slow trail up from his stuttering heartbeat, over the bob in his throat, along his jawline, and up to the center of his right cheekbone, where his skin spreads a soft flush.
“One,” she whispers.
Her finger slides a short distance to the side of his nose. “Two,” she says softly.
Toward the top of his nose bridge, near the inner corner of his left eye. His lashes flutter under her touch. “Three,” she continues.
The weightless scrape of her nail drags back down his jaw, over his throat as he swallows dryly, and presses near the racing pulse beneath his neck. “Four.”
Or: Miss Bodyguard becomes Miss Sleep Aid and counts Rafayel’s beauty marks to “help him sleep.” They don’t sleep.