“Wait,” she says, sounding out of breath. “Give me a moment.”
Concern tightens my gut. My libido calms a hundred degrees, taking a backseat to my worry. Framing her face, I ask, “You okay? Need some pills?”
She shakes her head. “I just need some air.”
I let her have it while I study her with careful attention. Her skin is flushed and those swollen lips red. Her pupils are shot. All signs of arousal. Still, I press a finger to the vein in her neck.
She tries to push my hand away with a tsk of her tongue, but I don’t let up until I’m certain her heartbeat is normal.
“Too much?” I ask.
Locking her arms around my neck, she gives me the good answer. “No.”
If love were instantaneous, I’d fall in love with her right here and now, but love takes time and investment, both luxuries I don’t have. Lust is immediate. It’s all-consuming, and the need drives me to touch her in all those sensitive zones of her body that makes her bow to my hands.
“Wait,” she says again.
I stop.
She cups my cheek. “You’re still dressed.”
An oversight I can quickly remedy. Hating the distance I have to put between us, I make quick work of peeling off my clothes.
She pushes up on her elbows to watch. Her gaze fixes on the tattoo under my breastbone. “What does that mean?”
“Illigitimi non carborundum.”
“Not the words,” she says as I advance on her. “The meaning.”
“It’s Latin for don’t let the bastards grind you down.”
“Why?”
I climb over her body, sucking in a breath when my cock brushes over the inside of her thigh. “A reminder to myself.”
“A reminder of what?”
“Survival.”
She traces the letters on the curve between my neck and shoulder. “Faith in love?”
“A reminder that not everything in life is ugly.”
She considers this before dragging her finger to the words inked on my chest. “By the grace of God go I. Are you religious?”
“No,” I admit. “It’s a proverb that expresses humility.”
“What’s the reminder?” she asks with a soft smile.
“That external factors play a role in shaping us.”
“Meaning we don’t carry all the blame for who we turn out to be?”
“No, baby doll.” I wipe a whisp of hair from her face. “We carry all the blame. We just don’t get to take all the credit.”
“For the good stuff, you mean.”
“Yeah.”
“Survival, humility, love,” she muses. “These qualities are so important to you, you had to engrave it in permanent ink on your skin.”
“As I said, reminders. They serve me every time I look in the mirror.”
She drags a hand to my hip, caressing the image of the dragon that flares from my hipbone down to my thigh. “Why a dragon?”
Smiling, I nip her earlobe. Such a curious creature. “In the Orient, the dragon is symbol of power, wisdom, strength, and hidden knowledge. In most other traditions, it represents chaos and untamed nature. It’s a reminder of the dualism in all of us.”
“A soulful man,” she teases, sliding a palm over the stubble on my cheek. “Which one did you get first?”
“Faith in love.”
“Why?”
“For my siblings.” I’ve never told anyone this, not even Leon, but the words come easily for her. “I abandoned them.” Failed them. Even Leon, just in a different way. “This way, I keep a part of them.” Under my skin.
She nods as if it makes perfect sense, as if she’s filled in the blanks. “What are their names?”
I tense a little as I mention them, the guilt of old always gnawing at my gut when I think about their dirty, innocent, unloved faces. “Zoe and Damian. And Leon.”
“How old are they?”
“Zoe is ten years younger than me. She’ll be twenty-five now. Damian is thirty. There are only eighteen months between Leon and me.”
“You don’t have contact?”
I drag my lips over the spot behind her ear, inhaling the clean scent of her skin. “No, for obvious reasons.” I don’t mention that Leon is part of the gang for those same, obvious reasons.
“Right. It’ll put them in danger.” She utters a little sigh and arches her neck to give me better access. “A tattoo seems like a good reminder. I’ve always wanted one.”
I stop pressing kisses to her ear and push up to look at her again. My voice is stern. “No.”
She blinks. “What?”
“There’s no way you’re getting a fucking tattoo.”
She stares at me with her pretty, blue gaze, her plump lips parted. “Why not?”
“Your skin is far too perfect to put marks on it.”
Her eyes flare. “Like you have a say.”
That gets to me. It hits a dark note. “You better believe it.”
“About whether I get inked?” she asks with a small laugh of disbelief.
“If I catch you near a tattoo parlor, the unlucky guy with the machine in his hand takes a bullet for you.”
“You’re serious!”
“Fuck yes.”
“What if the tattooist is a girl?”