Burn My Hart (The Notorious Harts 2)

‘No?’

‘My rebellious phase.’ She pulls her dress down a little—not far enough for my liking—to reveal the top of her breast, where a familiar line of ink is scrawled. It’s cursive script and I could duplicate the text in my sleep, though I’ve never asked what it means.

‘It’s French?’

‘Mmm.’

‘What does it say?’

‘Cendres en cendres toujours.’

Her accent is perfect. How come I didn’t realise she spoke French before? Because this is probably the longest conversation we’ve ever had that hasn’t also involved nudity—which has the habit of switching my brain off.

‘Ashes to ashes, always,’ she elaborates.

‘Ashes to ashes? Around the time you became Asha?’

Her smile is lopsided. ‘It’s tragic, right?’

I laugh. ‘There are worse ways to rebel.’

She runs her finger over the tattoo, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘I felt so damned liberated. My boyfriend at the time did this.’ She laughs softly. ‘It’s not as random as it sounds—he was training to become a tattooist and working with one of the best inkers in Paris. But it hurt like a mother trucker, believe me.’

I like the tattoo a little less now I know its provenance.

‘But you’d know.’ She nods towards my chest, where I have my own collection of ink.

‘I was way too drunk to feel mine.’

‘Oh, tough guy, huh?’ Her laugh is like music dancing through my veins.

‘Absolutely.’

‘What does it say?’

‘You showed me yours so I show you mine?’

‘A PG version of that,’ she quips.

‘I think I prefer R-rated.’

‘Same. Soon.’ Promise sizzles between us. My cock is so hard against my pants I have to shift a bit in the seat.

I lift my shirt over my head, loving the way her eyes drop to my bare chest as though she can’t help it. The tattoo is actually on my biceps so it’s a gratuitous chest-reveal but I’m becoming increasingly impatient for Asha and I’m willing to play dirty to move things along.

??se?d??a?

‘It’s beautiful.’

‘My chest?’

She shoots me a look of exasperation. ‘And the tattoo.’ She shakes her head a little from side to side and a tendril of her red hair waves against her cheek. I lean forward and catch it, tucking it behind her ear. She stills, her eyes hooking to mine, her pupils huge, her lips parted. Fuck, wanting her is going to be the end of me.

‘One summer Dad engaged a tennis coach for Joshua and me. He was Greek, and super nice. He tried to teach us the alphabet but it might as well have been Sanskrit for all the sense it made. What does it say?’

Great. Now I’m imagining Asha in a tiny white tennis dress, her tanned legs all long and athletic as she runs across the court. My dick is actually painful with how hard it is.

‘Poseidon.’