Damn him. He’s right.
I glance down at my arm, then back at him. “Fine. You may… touch my arm.”
He reaches over and lays his hand gently against my forearm. It’s warm. Firm. Weirdly intimate for something so tame.
We stare at each other. “Well?” I ask, voice a bit breathless. “Are we convincing?”
He quirks a brow. “I don’t know. I think we need more data.”
“Oh God.”
“Purely scientific,” he adds.
I think he’s enjoying this. I should be terrified. And maybe, just maybe, not so excited.
“I suppose that’s not the worst idea,” I say slowly.
“No.” Penn grins lazy. “And we’ve already established our worst ideas now, haven’t we?”
Oh, we have.
Unfortunately, my brain decides to show me a fast-forward highlight reel of said terrible ideas. Turkey Gate, humiliating PR disasters, and my ex with his tongue down some girl’s throat at the Snowberry Falls Christmas lighting. So yeah. Not exactly the playlist I want running in my head while lying in bed next to my fake fiancé with the body of a Norse god and a grin that should be illegal in all holiday zones.
“Can I touch you somewhere a little more intimate?”
“As long as it’s not one of the bases.”
That makes him chuckle. “Baseball…cute.” His hand moves slowly—deliberately—to my hip, which is exposed because my shirt has risen, and my pants have slipped. The second his skin meets mine, a full-body shiver rolls through me and goosebumps explode across my skin like popcorn in a hot pan.
“You cold?” he asks, brow raised, because of course he notices everything. Like a sexy human lie detector with bedhead.
“Yes,” I lie. “This room is freezing.”
Girl. No. You're toast. And not the dry, whole-wheat kind.
He starts rubbing his hand up and down my side to create friction, as if I’m not already combusting from the inside out. I swear, there’s a needy little pressure point low in my belly that’s about to start applauding him. Wildly. With jazz hands.
“Warm?” he asks, all innocent like.
Oh, if he only knew.
“Yes,” I squeak, voice tight and two octaves higher than usual.
Penn chuckles. “So, you’re not about to bolt to the bathroom and puke up a peppermint stick from the horror of me touching you?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s still early. There’s plenty of time for post-traumatic peppermint shock.”
He smirks. “How about you touch me now?”
And there it is.
I try to act casual. Like this is no big deal. Like I’m not internally combusting at the mere idea of touching him. “I suppose I should,” I concede, and he tugs the blankets down a little to give me access.
I reach out—hesitantly—and lay my hand flat on his chest. Which is…bare.
Bare chest.
Bare.