Page 66 of Strelitzias in Spring

I try to shift, to gain friction and relief against his hold, but he squeezes tighter, preventing any movement.

“I keep telling you to stop squirming, princess.”

“I need more, Wolf.” My voice sounds whiny, needy, almost annoying.

Wolf’s answering chuckle and lack of action are frustrating, so I try to grind on him again, gaining a little bit of movement before he stops my progress.

“You’ll get more when I say you can, Serena. Stop rushing me.” He walks us through a doorway and touches a switch, bathing us in artificial light. Taking in his space, I’m not surprised to see how tidy everything is, based on the rest of the house and his shop. A large black bed rests in the center of the room, made with a black comforter and matching pillows. The walls are also black, with the wall directly behind his bed done in textured paneling to give the image of one large headboard. The rest of his walls are filled with various tattoo-style art, similar to that in his shop. Black and gray, color, surrealism, neo-traditional, new school, and American traditional drawings are displayed thoughtfully, like a high-end gallery in New York.

The artwork is almost enough for me to forget that I have Wolf’s hand on my clothed pussy and his other on my neck. Almost, but not quite.

Looking away from the artwork, I take in the television mounted on the wall and the black media console below. He has two nightstands, a tall dresser, and not much else in the space. The only offensive item to his perfectly put-together room is a framed print of bright flowers leaning against the wall. The orange, purple, yellow, and green art pops against the white matte and black frame.

I never thought that the color black could be warm and inviting, simultaneously comforting and sensual, but he’s somehow achieved it.

“Your art is amazing,” I comment, still staring at the floral print. “What kind of flowers are those?”

Wolf’s gaze travels from the drawing to my face, and I can feel his intensity, even from the corner of my eye. Shifting my gaze, I raise a brow. “What?”

He stares at me for a beat before asking, “Do you like it?”

Nodding, I tell him the truth, “I love it.”

“Good, it’s yours.”

Rearing, my brows furrow in confusion. “What do you mean it’s mine? You want me to take it?”

A smirk breaks out on his face, making it both kissable and punchable. “No, you’re not taking that. It’s your tattoo.”

“What?” I screech, turning my head back to the print. “That’s my tattoo?”

“That’s what I said.”

Casting a glare from the corner of my eye, I mentally flip him off. “Put me down. I want to see it.” He complies, placing me gently on my feet. He doesn’t step back, doesn’t give me any additional space, so I skirt around him and bend over in front of the frame, taking in the precise lines and artistry. “Wolf, it’s stunning. When did you do this?”

“I started the draft when I mapped your back and butterfly dick placement last weekend. It took a few tries to get it right and to make sure that the original work would be covered. I may still have to alter a few of the flower placements, but that’s what the template looks like.”

“I—” I break off, shaking my head in amazement. “Wolf, it’s more than anything I could have imagined. What types of flowers are those?”

“Strelitzias, or bird of paradise.”

Looking over my shoulder, I see Wolf’s hands tucked into his pockets like he’s proud of his work but trying to maintain a shred of humility.

“What happened to Sloan’s piece?”

“She wanted to do hot air balloons.” His face twists, a disgusted sneer morphing his features.

“Oh.” I tilt my head, considering hot air balloons on my back for the rest of my life. While I don’t hate the idea, I also don’t feel connected to it. “What do they symbolize?”

Wolf looks to the ceiling like he’s reading a script on the black paint. “Hope, love, adventure.”

“And Strelitzias?”

He looks back down, meeting my eyes. “Freedom.”

“Oh.” My throat works, swallowing down the emotion attempting to choke me. “I think I like that better.”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “You wanted butterflies for the same reason. I’ll try to incorporate a few freehanded ones, but I wanted your tattoo to have the same meaning as what you originally intended. I wasn’t going to let Sloane put a romantic balloon on your back when you wanted something to symbolize breaking free.” He shakes his head, raising his arms to cross his chest. “I couldn’t do that to you.”

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