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“You know, when you told me storm chasing would be mostly boring, I thought you were exaggerating,” Jacob huffs from the drivers’ seat.

I smother a laugh as I study his sullen expression. Arms crossed in frustration, the position makes his biceps pop, showcasing his tattoos gloriously. Those beautiful corded muscles of his forearms flex, and I have a moment where I transport myself back to last night, when Jacob took me from behind in our shower, and I grabbed onto his forearms to keep myself upright.