Page 41 of Their Princess

“Rafe, I mean. Under Massimo’s thumb.”

“Aahhh, no.” I shook my head. With Rafe part of the MC and this stupid deal now, he was probably more under Papà’s control than he ever had been before. “He got most of his tattoos in the Marines.”

“So he said,” replied Graff.

I scoffed. “Why ask if you already knew?”

“Rhetoric.”

Okay, so this guy was starting to seem like someone I could hold real conversations with.

“We talked about it earlier,” Graff continued. “He wants to complete his sleeve.”

I could see that with Rafe. It suited him.

Graff reached out and ran a finger over the exposed skin on my upper arm. “Your skin would be an amazing canvas.” His attention seemed lost somewhere. “Are you looking to get some ink?”

“I’m considering it,” I replied, surprising myself. I hadn’t been considering it before that moment, but with the fascinationhe showed. Well, yeah, I’d let him create something on my skin. Maybe it would even be a good enough FU to Papà.

Heat spread across my skin, in the wake of Graff’s finger, and I told myself it was just the bonfire, and all the wires connected to the big speakers. It was logical. Electronics put off heat.

“What do you want?” asked Graff.

“Belladonna.” The word had fallen from my lips before the thought entered my mind.

He rocked back on his heels, and I smirked. Some questions I couldn’t fathom passed through his eyes, and they flitted around the patio. His look wasn’t neutral, more like half-heartedly confused. Maybe he was concerned that others were watching us.

“I don’t think you have to worry about the others looking over here.”

They were more interested in the half-dressed women and getting their rocks off.

“Belladonna is a bold choice,” said Graff.

“You don’t recommend it?” I asked, dipping my chin. “I thought that was your work on the front of the warehouse.”

“I’m not recommending shit.” He set his jaw. “Tats are a personal thing, but?—”

“So you’ll do it?”

“You gotta give me more to go on,” he said.

“What else is there?” I asked.

“Design. Size. Coloring. On your bottom. Or breast?” He had dropped his voice for the last in his list, but no one was listening. No one could hear us over the music. I could barely hear him over the music, and I was standing less than a foot away.

“What about your artistic choice?” I asked.

He shrugged. “It’s not the same with tattoos. Tats are an agreement between the artist and the canvas. Something goeswrong, trust is fried.” Graff’s lips cocked up on one side. “And in this case, you’re the canvas.”

I tucked my chin as my cheeks flared. Why did being called his canvas make me so shy?

Tucking my hair behind my ear, I said, “What you did on the building is gorgeous.”

“It needs work. And I could redo it.”

“Same with tattoos.”

He thinned his lips and gave his head a small shake. “Those are more permanent.”

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