Page 40 of Strelitzias in Spring

“Are you going to come in or just stare at me from across the room?”

“Are you going to be nice to me, or should I walk back to the lobby to let you cool down?”

He rolls his eyes at my quip. “I’m always nice, princess. You just might not like what I have to say.”

Unfolding my arms, I let them hang by my side and mutter loud enough for him to hear, “Well, your delivery sucks.” I walk further into the room and stop by one of the oversized chairs, sinking until my back hits the chair.

“Whatever.” He moves past me and grabs the hidden handle of his pocket door, sliding it closed. My heart rate picks up at the solitude we’ve found ourselves in, though I shouldn’t be surprised. With the door open to the rest of the shop and its customers, I could pretend that my being here didn’t affect me and had no bearing on my mental state. But with that slide of the door, he’s wrecked that belief.

The worst part is that he has no idea that he’s set me so off-kilter if his calm expression is anything to go by.

“Okay, Serena, I’m going to need you to take off your shirt, lay face down on the tattoo bench, and show me your back. I want to take a closer look at how the skin is healing and if there’s going to be any problem areas with the cover-up. I didn’t get a good look at it yesterday.”

My mind stutters at the beginning of his statement, grasping onto his instruction to “take off your shirt.” That is the absolute last thing I should be doing right now.

“I could just bunch my shirt up like yesterday,” I say.

Before I finish my sentence, he’s shaking his head. I scowl.

“Sorry, princess, but I need a good look at your skin, and the shirt will slip, fall, and obstruct my ability to see everything we’re working with. I’ve seen plenty of backs, and I closed the door to give you some privacy.”

“Fine,” I sigh, standing up and quickly whipping the long-sleeved cotton shirt I’m wearing over my head, leaving myself in just a black lace demitasse bra, my jeans, and a pair of Air Forces.

Wolf’s throat clears, and I turn my attention to him. “I could have turned around first before you started stripping,” Wolf murmurs, running a hand over his face as he looks anywhere but at me.

“Right, shit. Sorry,” I apologize, mortified that my common sense also seems to have failed me.

“It’s fine, just… just get on the table,” Wolf nearly growls, still averting his eyes. I have the burning need to cover my chest with my hands, even though it’s irrational, and I’m as covered up, if not more, than a woman on the beach. Forcing myself to move at a slow pace, I walk to the flat table and lay down, turning my head toward Wolf’s form.

I watch as he takes long, deep breaths like he’s trying to rein himself in. Wiping his face with his hand, he clutches his throat and looks up toward the ceiling. Whatever prayer or internal monologue he says must do the trick because he finally drops his hand and settles his gaze on me. Our eyes meet, and a tight smile breaks out on his face. “Ready?” he asks, as though I haven’t been watching him have a silent freak-out for the last five minutes while I’ve been topless on his tattoo table.

“Mhmm.”

His eyes narrow, but instead of responding, he walks over to me and rolls his stool over to my right side. Seating himself on the rolling furniture that looks like it’ll snap under his weight, he reaches above me and turns on a spotlight, blinding me. I squint and squeeze my eyes shut.

“Stop moving,” Wolf orders, his command sharp and leaving no room for argument.

“Sorry.”

“I don’t want an apology. Just stop squirming.” Wolf says this as he places a hand on my back, lightly touching the tattoo and my surrounding skin. The moment his skin makes contact with mine, I feel my body shiver.

“Serena.” That’s it, just my name. Three goddamn syllables said in Wolf’s deep voice with a commanding tone, and I’m putty. No, I’m worse than moldable, malleable putty. I’m water, a fluid that will take the shape of anything Wolf wants to put me in.

Wolf’s hand continues to coast up and down my back, taking entirely too long for the task at hand. His fingers graze a sensitive spot, and I bite my lip to keep in the laughter that’s threatening to push past my lips.

“I forgot how ticklish you are,” Wolf whispers in a voice so low I’d think I imagined hearing it if it weren’t for the increased pressure he’s exerting on the spot that’s making me squirm.

“Wolf!” I shout and move to get out of his reach until I’ve shifted so much that I’m about to roll off the narrow table. Wolf’s arms band around me, pulling me back until I’m cradled in his arms and staring into his deep green eyes. He holds me to him, and I can’t help but stare at his perfectly flawed face: the slightly crooked nose, the dark red stubble that adorns his cheeks, the thick eyelashes that are unfairly blessed on his face. My heart pounds so hard in my chest that I imagine it looks like one of those cartoon hearts, beating so violently that it pops out of my chest cavity until my tendons suck it back in.

Wolf tightens his hold on my body for a moment. The move presses my semi-bare chest into his, and he studies me just as closely as I study him before he places me back down on the table. “Be careful, princess. I don’t need an insurance claim for a good deed.” I bristle at his words, as though I’m a charity case that requires his aid rather than a forced participant in this cover-up.

“I fully intend to pay for—”

“No. I’m not accepting your fucking money, so don’t bother offering it,” he cuts me off. He nudges my shoulder, silently encouraging me to lie on my stomach.

“You’re impossibly frustrating.”

“Thanks. Now, I need you to stay still. Your skin seems to be healing well enough, but I want to do a hand sketch on stencil paper of your back to see how a piece could lay to cover up the areas that need to be hidden.”

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