She had not wanted to give him her number. She had said that she did not have any paper.
“Write it on my forearm,” he had said, and Emerson frowned softly.
She leaned in to give him a fake number, but when she did, she smelled the sage on his skin. The scent aroused her so much that she wrote her correct number–slowly–on his arm. His eyes and breath were responsive to every stroke of her pen. Emerson added an additional…