Birthright

Deep in contemplation of her own mysterious brain workings, Rhiannon missed the motion in the darkness. She bumped into his chest. Her fingers clutched at his shirt, which wasn’t there. That was hot skin. “Shit. Sorry.” It was the second time she had uttered that phrase in one night. Upon realizing it, she laughed, an airy sound of bewilderment, because the proximity to him was not funny in the least. “I think you did that on purpose,” she said. Her fingers squeezed his upper arms.

Stop petting him.