“I know. I’m prepared. It’ll be worth it.”
Hemi does glance up at me this time. He studies me curiously for a few seconds. His lips move as though he might say something, but he changes his mind and turns his attention back to his task. “Good,” he finally says. “Just let me know if I need to stop.”
I watch him as he works. I watch his face, I watch the competent way his hand holds me, the controlled way his fingers grip the gun. I watch the subtle shift of muscle beneath the skin in his forearms. I watch the way the light glints off his shiny dark brown hair. I admire the way the ends curl up on the longer pieces. My guess is that if Hemi didn’t keep his hair short, it would have a wave to it. I can just imagine running my fingers through it, feeling the texture of it tickling my palms.
Hemi weaves up and down along my side, giving me a lazy ribbon of butterflies that winds ever higher toward my arm pit. When he reaches the place where my bra strap rests, he slips his fingers under the edge and pushes it up out of the way.
He inks a butterfly right at the edge of my bra line and then dips down, closer to the underside of my breast to do another. I feel my ni**les tighten in response to the brush of his hand as he holds the material out of his way. I close my eyes and try to concentrate on something else. I focus on the painful sting of the needle as it penetrates my skin, leaving only beautiful color behind.
When the prickling stops, I open my eyes, confused. Hemi is watching me. He doesn’t move. Not one muscle. He just looks at me. For a few seconds, I’m lost to everything but him—the look in his eyes, the way his hand feels hot as fire where it rests against my skin, the way my breast aches for him to slide his fingers up just a fraction of an inch.
After at least a full disconcerting minute of watching me without saying a single word, Hemi finally speaks, surprising me. “Maybe we should give you a rest and finish up later.” I see him glance at a place above my head. “You’ve been here nearly two hours. That’s a long time under the needle.”
I’m shocked. It feels like I’ve been here only a few minutes. Or a lifetime. I’m not sure which. Kind of like the way I feel about Hemi. On the one hand, he’s a perfect stranger who gives me butterflies of a different kind every time he looks at me. But on the other hand, in a way I feel like I know him. Like we’re…connected. But not in the way one might think. I feel as though there’s a tug of war going on. Between us as well as within us. I’m the sheltered girl trying to break free and really live for the first time in her life. I’m striving to put fear and reservation and hesitation aside in favor of seizing the moment.
But not Hemi.
I get the feeling that he’s lived that way for a long time, that he seized all of life’s moments until something happened to make him stop. Stop and take notice. And slow down. And distance himself.
I could be way off base. But if I’m not, how do two people like that meet in the middle? Or do they? Is that even possible?
Maybe I’m overthinking something that’s merely fleeting. I mean, he’s giving me a tattoo. He didn’t ask me to move in, for God’s sake.
But still…
I’m sure it’s psychotic as hell that I don’t want the night to end, that I’m willing to endure such discomfort to stay here a little longer.
You’re pathetic. And desperate.
But that other voice inside me pipes up again, reminding me that there’s no time like the present. No one is promised a tomorrow. We have today. Right now. Nothing more.
Hemi’s hand over my ribs, rocking me gently back and forth, shakes me out of my stupor. I don’t know how long I’ve been watching him, thinking, saying nothing, but I’m guessing too long. I nod and smile, pushing myself up into a sitting position, protectively holding one arm over my chest.
“Oh, sorry,” Hemi says, whirling around in his chair to tend his equipment so he can give me a little privacy.
With my eyes glued to his broad shoulders, I right my bra and fasten it. I pull down my shirt then reach for my pants, tugging them up to where they belong.
Hemi stands to throw something into the garbage. When he turns back toward me, our eyes collide. That’s when the impulse hits me. It slams into me like a gust of wind going ninety miles an hour. It steals my breath and makes my heart beat so hard that I can hear it in my ears. And for once in my life, I put thought aside. I don’t overthink it. In fact, I don’t think about it at all. Before I can change my mind, I slide off the table and step toward him. He doesn’t move, doesn’t back up, just stands tall and perfectly still. Watching me. I wonder if he knows what I’m thinking, how I’m feeling. What I’m about to do. And I wonder if he’ll stop me.
But I don’t overthink that either. If I do, I’ll chicken out. And I can’t afford to chicken out on life anymore.
I take another step toward him, building up the nerve to just do it, just kiss him. But Hemi surprises me when he takes the step that will bring us near enough to touch.
He’s so close, my chest almost brushes his every time I inhale. I sway toward him the tiniest bit, craving the contact. With him. A perfect stranger.
“Sloane,” he whispers, the sound of my name on his lips bringing chills to my arms again. He reaches out to push my hair back over my shoulder. His fingertips linger on the skin of my neck before they fall away.
“Hemi,” I sigh, melting into the heat of his eyes. I knew there was something between us. Well, I’d hoped. Hoped I wasn’t imagining it. But now I know I wasn’t. It’s there, staring out at me from behind his hooded midnight eyes. Blatant and unabashed, he wants me. And I want him, too.
“You need to walk out that door and never come back.”
My heart stops. Of all the things I thought he might say, this came out of nowhere. “What?” I ask in a small, uncertain voice.
“You need to leave. And don’t look back.”
I scramble to recover. “But…but what about the rest of my tattoo?”
“I’m not talking about your tattoo and you know it.”
“Then what are you talking about?” I inquire, playing dumb to save what’s left of my crumbling pride.
“I’m talking about you. And me. This. Us.”
“There is no us.”
“There will be in about thirty seconds if you don’t get the hell out of here.”
“What if I don’t want to leave?” I’m confused. Is he saying that he wants me? Or that he wants me to go?