Page 35 of Praying for Rain

“More flowers?” She chuckles, her eyes glued to my crotch.

Glancing back down, I realize that I’m wearing my floral-print boxer shorts, the ones my asshole roommate gave me as a joke for Christmas.

“They came with the uniform.” I smirk, pushing my jeans the rest of the way down. That shuts her up.

Rain’s eyes go wider as she drinks in the outline of my semi-hard cock, plastered down by the clinging fabric of my wet boxers.

His name might be emblazoned across her back, but her nipples are straining against the fabric because of me.

I step out of my jeans and hook my thumbs into the waistband of my boxers. Just as I’m about to slide them down, Rain squeezes her eyes shut and squeals. Dropping the bundle in her hands to the floor, she suddenly grabs the sides of her basketball shorts and yanks them down. The jersey is long enough to cover her ass, but I still get a clean shot of those full, perfect tits when she bends over to step out of the shorts.

“Here!” she chirps, holding the shiny blue fabric out toward me with her eyes still closed. “Put these on!”

I chuckle as I toss my wet clothes onto the pile at her feet. As I stalk toward Rain, wearing nothing but a self-satisfied grin, I’m one hundred percent confident that she’s forgotten all about What’s-his-face. At least, for now. Hell, the way she’s blushing and biting that plump bottom lip as I approach, she might have forgotten her own name.

I take the shorts from her hand and step into them, taking my sweet-ass time. Once they’re on, I clear my throat, prompting Rain to open her eyes. I’m crowding her space, so close she has to crane her neck back to look up at me. The microwave dings, but neither of us pays it any attention.

“Thanks.”

Her eyes drop to my chest. I know without looking what she’s staring at. I can see her counting.

“Thirteen?”

It was the first tattoo I ever got. Thirteen jagged tally marks, right above my heart. Usually, when girls ask about it, I just make some shit up. Thirteen is my lucky number. Or, My mom’s birthday was August thirteenth. Or, It’s the number of touchdown passes I threw to win the state championship back in high school.

But Rain isn’t going to fuck me, no matter what I say—at least, not in this house—so I tell her the truth.

“It’s the number of foster homes I was in.”

She doesn’t bat an eye at my admission. She just lets them roam over my flesh. “What about this one?”

She’s staring at the rose and dagger on my right shoulder, just above my bullet wound. I laugh. “Have you ever heard that song ‘Eurotrash Girl’?”

Rain nods and looks up at me.

“Well, there’s a part where he talks about getting a tattoo of a rose and a dagger in Berlin, so one weekend, when some friends and I took the train to Berlin for Oktoberfest, we all got rose and dagger tattoos.”

“Uh, I’m pretty sure he talks about getting crabs in Berlin, too.” Rain wrinkles her nose and gives me the side-eye. “Or was that Amsterdam?”

“No, I think Amsterdam’s where he sold his plasma.”

“Right.” She grins. “And spent all the money on a guy in drag.”

“It happens to the best of us.” I shrug, eliciting another giggle from Rain.

“What’s the story behind this one?” Her eyes drift down to my elbow.

I roll my arm over, showing the whole thing.

I snort a laugh through my nose. “I had a buddy who wouldn’t let his tattoo artist go near his elbow because he heard it was the most painful place to get inked, so while he was getting some work done on his bicep, I got another artist at the shop to do a bull’s-eye right on my elbow, just to be a dick.”

Rain laughs, the smile finally reaching her eyes. “Did it hurt?”

“Like a bitch.”

Water from the clothes on the floor trickles over to my bare feet as Rain’s eyes devour the stories etched in my skin. I wanted to use my body to taunt her, punish her, but instead, she’s reading it like an open book. When her gaze slides over to the wilted lily tattoo on my ribs, I’ve never felt more exposed.

“Did that one hurt?” She touches it with a cold fingertip, tracing the stem down my side.

---