Page 34 of Madam Alana

Nothing could have been more perfect.

We chose to place the fingerprint heart on the inside of ourbiceps on our left arms, closest to our real-life hearts. It was also alocation we could easily hide if we desired.

“Youdyingover there?” Celinecalled out from the booth next to the one I sat in.

“Living the dream,” I answered truthfully while I looked atChristophe, his gorgeous hazel eyes beaming with something I hoped was akin tolove. He lifted my free hand to his lips and kissed my knuckles. He’d sat on myright side, while the artist was on the left, me seated in between them.

“My brave wife,” he murmured.

I winced as the needle struck a particularly tender spot andwatched while Christophe reacted to my pain by kissing my hand as he continuedto speak French, some of which I was able to catch.

Beautiful.

Kiss.

Courageous.

Kiss.

Loyal.

Kiss.

Mine.

Kiss.

He bathed my hand and wrist in featherlight presses of hislips, somehow making me forget entirely about the tattoo needle and the artistcreating an image on my skin. I only had eyes for Christophe.

My husband.

I still couldn’t believe I’d been married and was completelyfalling in love with him within just a few days. He was that wonderful. Open,honest, attentive, considerate, compassionate. He walked through life with asmile on his face and a skip in his step. He rarely spoke harsh words andwasn’t easily angered.

“Tell me about how you were raised?” I asked, figuring it musthave shaped him into the remarkable man I’d begun to know well.

He interlaced our fingers and set his head against my handas though he was holding me, and I him at the same time. He seemed to want totouch me often. Not like Darren pawed at Celine, but with reverence andadoration. I wasn’t used to such a thing, but I wasn’t about to stop it. Icraved that feeling of being desired and wanted, yet not in the lustful way,but in an intimate one that went beyond sex.

True intimacy.

“What would you like to know?” he asked.

“Anything you want to share.”

He nuzzled my hand with his cheek and closed his eyes beforehe spoke. “My mother was an art teacher. Taught me the basics very young. Shewas unearthly beautiful and didn’t know it. You and she have that in common.”

My cheeks heated, but I let the compliment fill my heartinstead of denying it.

“My father doted on her. Always wanting to see her smile andmake her laugh. Reminded me regularly that if I was lucky enough to have thelove of a good woman, I’d be rich beyond words every day of my life. He taughtme to respect women as my equals and to always right a wrong when I had themeans and power to do so.”

“That’s very noble,” I offered.

He shrugged. “Perhaps. Though I don’t see anyone as beingbetter or worse than anyone else. We are who we are. I was taught to appreciatethe differences in people around me because that’s what makes the world so interesting.”

I smiled, loving the ease with which he spoke. His voice wasmesmerizing.

“Let’s see… My mother loved color. Our houses were neverleft with white walls.” He playfully shivered and I chuckled. “They were alwaysfilled with art, books, plants. Things she believed moved the soul intocreating. She claimed her muse was a fickle thing but when she paid attentionto it and worked with it, she created something magical.”

“Then how can I be your muse if it lives within you?” Iasked, genuinely curious.

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