Page 79 of If Our Hearts Collide

I head down the hall with my semi-hard dick straining against my pants. The only thing cockblocking me is my own conscience, and thankfully so, because I value my life.

I start to undress as soon as my door shuts, yanking my shirt over my head and throwing it across the room into the hamper.

Penny messes up the order of my perfectly constructed life—which I built for myself out of nothing. Growing up without love helped me to value the progress I’ve made at not becoming a statistic. I value organization, consistency, and predictability. I like to know what to expect and when to expect it. My mind and body thrive on control.

But Penny scatters everything.

She’s the one person making me want things I told myself I couldn’t have, wouldn’t need, and didn’t deserve.

Meandering into the bathroom, I wash my face and brush my teeth. Slipping on a pair of low-rise black pajama pants, I makemy way into the bedroom, startled to find Penny in the doorway leading out into the hall.

Her eyes trail up my body like a slow, lingering caress, stopping at different landmarks along the way. Her eyes travel from the V of my waist, to my chest, to the script tattoo I have on the underside of my arm. She eventually stops at my twitching jawline—the one that won’t stay still—as her mouth opens and then closes.

I reach up to rub at the back of my neck.

Does she like what she sees?

Penny tilts her head to the side, as if she’s trying to figure me out. “I didn’t know you had a tattoo.”

“Plural. I have more.”

“Hmm,” she says with a hum, looking to the side of my room where my king bed rests. This is my domain—my safe place.

Her eyes connect with mine again. “How did I not notice when we were swimming at my birthday party? Surely I would have seen it.”

I shrug. It’s not like I try to hide it, but it isn’t like I make it a point to show anyone. I never expected Penny to see it, especially when it is in a discreet place and often concealed if my arm is down near my side.

“Lilost?” she asks, looking for clarification.

I raise my arm to give her a better look since she clearly is curious. “Litost,” I correct.

“What does it mean?”

I never thought my tats would be the topic of deep conversation, but it seems like Penny is intrigued. “It’s a Czech word that’s actually difficult to translate, but it basically means to be tormented by the eye-opening sight of your own misery.”

Penny takes a step closer, shortening the distance between us. My ink artist did a fabulous job with the lettering. Often, the clarity gets muffled over the course of time. I got this one doneabout five years ago, and it still looks crisp along the edges, and I never had to get it touched up.

“Wow,” she says, reaching her hand out and trailing a finger along each letter.

A shiver starts in my toes, slithering up my legs, over my torso, and through my limbs. Penny is a devil in an angel’s disguise. Does she know how freaking badly I want to pull her to me, cup the porcelain skin of her face, and make out with her pouty lips? I want her to know how a real man kisses and not these boys she probably will end up dating.

Ugh. That reminds me that she is going to go to that dating mixer event. How the hell am I going to be able to control my urges to tell her they all suck ass? I mean, I haven’t met any of them yet, but I can make that prediction with almost ninety-nine percent accuracy. I know how men think.

They are dirty.

I am dirty.

Why the hell am I even worrying about this right now? It’s not like I’m staying in this position. It’s not like I have some claim over Penny—no one does.

“I want one.”

My eyes slide to hers. “Hmm?”

She removes her hand from my skin, making me feel the void at the loss of her touch. “A tattoo. I want one.”

I frown. The thought of Penny enduring the pain of the needle makes me cringe. “Why?” My question comes out harsher than I intend.

“I want to have the thrill of knowing that my skin is being branded with an idea all of my own choosing.”

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