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“This will hurt ye more than it does me,” she said as she pulled the thread through his skin. “Nay, lass, you’re but tickling me,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers. His thumb rubbed back and forth over her forearm. “What are ye doing?” she demanded. “Hmm?” He blinked, all innocence. She looked pointedly down at his hand. His thumb stopped. “I was just distracting myself a bit from the pain,” he said. “Ye’re fair soft.” “Ye’re accustomed to scratchy wool. That’s just the silk ye feel.” “No, I can imagine ye beneath your clothes,” he said. “I’m thinking your skin puts silk to shame.” — Connie Mason
This will hurt ye more than it does me,” she said as she pulled the thread through his skin.
“Nay, lass, you’re but tickling me,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers. His thumb rubbed back and forth over her forearm.
“What are ye doing?” she demanded.
“Hmm?” He blinked, all innocence.
She looked pointedly down at his hand. His thumb stopped.
“I was just distracting myself a bit from the pain,” he said. “Ye’re fair soft.”
“Ye’re accustomed to scratchy wool. That’s just the silk ye feel.”
“No, I can imagine ye beneath your clothes,” he said. “I’m thinking your skin puts silk to shame.