“But you—”
“And I still don’t.”
“Oh,” she says flatly.
I make the outline of yet another butterfly, drawing closer to the edge of her shirt. A big part of me salivates at the thought of teaching her to tattoo, at the thought of what could come from such close and frequent contact. There’s no question that I’d like to discover every inch of this tight little body. Two or three times. If I were the selfish ass**le I used to be, I’d do exactly that, consequences be damned. But I’m not that guy anymore. I’m focused, and that part of me knows it would be a mistake. I don’t need any distractions right now. I have one mission, and bedding a girl like this isn’t one of them.
We fall quiet. In the silence, the buzz of the needle seems louder than ever.
CHAPTER FIVE - Sloane
I lie still and quiet as Hemi draws the outlines of butterflies along the curve of my waist. Then he’ll go back and do the shading. I don’t really know what to say now. I’m feeling a little uncomfortable, a little stung over his reaction. It felt dismissive. Dangerously close to rejection.
While he’s working, I give myself a pep talk, reminding myself that life is short and that, in most cases (like this one for instance), it’s now or never. All I could do was ask. Which I did. Now, I can move on.
But the longer I lie here and think about it, the more I wish Hemi had agreed. I would love the opportunity to learn how to place my art on skin, to etch it permanently onto someone’s body, onto their soul.
I hear the buzz of the gun die and I glance down at Hemi. “You’re gonna need to lift your shirt up a little farther and turn up onto your side.”
He’s matter of fact, which is good. I wouldn’t want him acting differently. That would be humiliating, like I’d offered up something else to him and been shot down. It makes me think of all that I’d like to offer up to him, but that would be too risky. Too brave. Too brazen.
But life is short, a quiet voice reminds from somewhere deep inside me.
It gives me chills to think of how a scene like that might play out, especially if Hemi were agreeable to my…offer.
“Are you cold?” Hemi asks, interrupting my thoughts.
I glance down at him, meeting his eyes. “No, why?”
“You’ve got chills,” he says, stroking my side with his warm palm, making my flesh pebble even more.
His gaze doesn’t leave mine as he drags his hand back and forth over my side, as if to test the temperature of my skin. But I told him I’m not cold. So why? Why touch me this way?
I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking behind those indigo orbs.
Ignoring his observation, I ask, “Which way do you want me to turn?”
He doesn’t look away and he doesn’t move his hand as he answers me. “Turn to face me.”
I roll onto my left side, facing Hemi. When I’m comfortably situated, he lowers the table a little more, bringing my side down to a manageable height for him. “Come toward me some more.”
I scoot closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body against the part of my stomach that’s bared to him. I will my skin not to react, not to shrivel up in goosebumps. “Is that close enough?” I ask, suddenly feeling breathless being this close to him. The situation isn’t helping any—him sitting near the curve of my body, the studio empty but for us, the lighting dim everywhere else, midnight hovering just beyond the walls.
Hemi leans in as if to check the comfort and his ability to work in this position before he nods. “Yes, that’s fine. Now, your shirt.”
I reach between us to raise my shirt, pulling it up along my ribs, exposing the area where he’ll be drawing. I lie still, waiting, waiting for him to touch me. Unable to help myself, I inhale when I feel his hands on me again. Heat floods me from head to toe and everywhere in between.
“How far do you want to go?” he asks in a husky voice.
My eyes fly to his. He’s looking at me, no hint of playfulness in his expression. “Pardon?”
“How far do you want me to go? Up your side? Where do you want me to stop?”
My pulse is skittering along at a rapid pace and I try my best to jerk my wayward mind back to the present, to the situation, and get it out of the gutter.
“Umm, maybe up to here,” I say, pointing to what feels about right, high up on my side.
“You’ll need to unhook your bra so I can get under the strap then,” he tells me.
I feel the blood rush to my cheeks, hoping he doesn’t think this was what I was getting at, that I’m hitting on him or something.
“Oh, well, that’s okay. You can just stop at the edge then.”
“I want you to be satisfied,” he says, his words playing right into a game that I’m not even sure he’s aware of.
Or is he?
“I’ll be satisfied either way.”
“I think it would look good if you took them all the way up. But that’s just me. It’s up to you. If you don’t feel comfortable…”
Is that challenge in his voice, in his eyes? He’s just looking at me. There’s no change in his expression... But still, there’s a subtle undercurrent here, running between us like churning river water. At least I think there is. But I can’t be certain it’s real and not imagined.
“It’s not that,” I begin.
“Good,” he says, his lips curving at the corners. “You don’t have to take it off, just unfasten it so I can move it up a little.”
My breathing is shallow as I lever myself up on my elbow and reach around to unsnap my bra.
Thank God I didn’t wear one that opens in the front!
The band around my torso loosens and I get back into position, bending my arms and folding both hands under my cheek as I scoot back toward Hemi again.
He wheels his chair in as close as he can get and, without a word, lays one arm across me and fires up the gun to freehand another string of beautiful butterflies.
Positioned like I am, there’s really nowhere to look but at Hemi, which is fine by me. His eyes are sharp in concentration, his brow slightly furrowed. His tongue is caught between his teeth, barely visible at the edge of his sculpted lips. It makes me wonder what it would taste like—his tongue and the inside of his mouth.
“You doing all right?” he asks, not looking away from what he’s doing.
“I’m fine.”
“The higher I get onto your ribs, the more it will sting.”