One Last Time (Loveless Brothers 5)

“Seth, you have it,” I tell him. “This is yours, too. You get to share it. It’s your family, your celebration, your joy.”

“And the love of my life.”

I stand on my toes, bring his forehead down to mine.

“And the love of my life,” I whisper.

We kiss. It feels like the stars wheel through the sky overhead, like trees sway and sigh, like the clouds part and the moon shines through. It feels like birds fly and fairies get their wings.

Then, the door opens. Small feet thump out, and we turn to see Rusty, now in a vest and shirtsleeves, run up to us.

“Uncle Seth! Delilah!” she says. “CAKE!”

Then she’s gone, and we’re both laughing.

“All right, you heard her,” Seth says, and stands up straight, takes my hand.

Then he looks over at me, his face naked, vulnerable.

“I love you,” he says.

I kiss his hand, held in mine.

“I love you too,” I tell him.

Together, we go back to the celebration.EpilogueDelilahTwo Years Later“There’s no way it hurt this much the first time,” he says, still staring at a spot on the ceiling.

“Probably because you talked less,” I say, dabbing at his skin again.

“You have no idea how much I talked,” he says.

“It’s an educated guess,” I tell him, the gun still in my hand. “Everyone knows that the more you complain about it, the more it hurts.”

He turns his head and looks at me, though he’s very careful not to move anything else.

“Did Lainey get that from some study?” he teases. “What are your sources?”

“That one’s folk wisdom, but folk wisdom is usually right,” I admit, sitting back. I grab the light and move it around a little, press my fingers into his arm, double check the lines and the dots and the brand new star that matches the one on my wrist.

“I’d flex for you, but my arm kinda hurts,” he teases.

I roll my eyes at him, still smiling.

“That tattoo must have really hurt,” I say in faux-sympathy.

“Okay, okay,” Seth says. “Point taken.”

I switch the gun off, put it back on the tray, and hold up a mirror so he can check it out a little better.

“Perfect,” he says, and touches his arm with his other hand.

I grab his wrist, still wearing gloves.

“No touching,” I tell him.

“You this handsy with all your clients?” he asks, grinning.

I put the mirror back but don’t let go of Seth’s wrist.

“Most of them know better than to poke a brand new tattoo,” I say.

Seth just grins and pulls his arm away, bringing my hand with it. He’s still in my dentist-style tattoo chair, and when I try to let him go he just grabs my hand himself and keeps pulling.

“Hey,” I protest, but I don’t protest too hard. “We’re not done.”

“You look like you need a break,” he says, very seriously.

“That would be wildly unprofessional of me,” I say, leaning on the arm of the chair.

“I promise not to tell the… Board of Tattoos?” he says, raising one eyebrow.

“Yes, our very real central governing body is notoriously strict,” I deadpan.

I pull my hand free of his, then take my gloves off and toss them on the tray, too, as Seth reaches over and grabs the belt loop of my denim shorts and tugs me toward him. He took his shirt off while I touched up his constellation tattoo, so now he’s reclining half-naked in my chair and giving me a lazy hey there look.

“I don’t usually do this with customers,” I tease, not budging.

That gets a double eyebrow raise.

“Usually?” he says, voice going low, and I grin.

“Hardly ever,” I say.

“C’mere,” he says, and grabs the waistband of my shorts, tugs gently.

I stand, swing my leg over the chair, and straddle him.

“And definitely not with customers who complain as much as you did,” I say, leaning forward.

“I thought maybe I could get some sympathy kisses,” he says, and I laugh. “What?”

“From me?” I tease. “Of all people? Harden the fuck up, Seth.”

“Damn,” he says. “Guess whose Yelp review just got lowered to three stars.”

“Three?” I protest. “You took off two stars for that?”

“Just one,” he says.

I sit back, still on his lap, and put my hands on his knees. My shorts are riding up, garters visible, and I can see him sneaking looks. Apparently, they still haven’t gotten old.

“You would four-star me for a great, free tattoo?” I ask, mock-offended.

“I was gonna offer you the option of earning the fifth star.”

“Let me guess,” I say, tapping a finger against his knee. “By being a great conversationalist? Ooh, or for giving you really clear aftercare instructions?”

“Close,” he says, and grabs the bottom of my tank top, winds the fabric around his fingers.

“For opening the shop on a Sunday, then,” I tease, leaning forward.

“Almost,” he says, sliding his hands over my butt.

I rest my forearms on his chest, lower my face to his.