Page 41 of Strelitzias in Spring

“Sloan’s not going to just fix the butterflies?”

“The flying cocks,” he emphasizes. “No one’s going to fix the flying cocks on your back. There’s no salvaging them. Besides, an artist never wants to correct someone else’s work; they’d rather cover it up and show how badass the piece can be without the shit that weighed it down.”

“Right. Okay. But what is Sloan thinking?”

Ignoring my question, he continues, “But I need you to stay still. One move, and you’ll move the marker, alter the linework, and change the entire piece. Do you understand?”

I nod as best I can while lying down and looking up at him.

“Let me hear you say it, princess.”

“Yes. I won’t move.”Much, I tack on in my head.

Seemingly satisfied, Wolf reaches behind him and pulls out a long sheet of paper and a sleeve of markers. Covering my back with the paper, he presses it down before taking a marker out. He puts it between his teeth before pulling the bottom out, revealing a black felt tip.

“If Sloan is doing the piece, why are you sketching?”

“Because I can’t fucking help myself,” he mumbles around the cap before putting it on the back of the marker. I’m not entirely sure about the sanitation protocols, but something seems off.

“Shouldn’t you be wearing gloves?”

“We’re not breaking any skin, and you have no open wounds on your back, just some redness and irritation. Besides, I’m not sketching on your skin, just tracing the shape of your back and the existing tattoo. We’re fine,” he mumbles, though I don’t miss the wince on his face at my observation.

Despite the thin paper that separates Wolf’s hand from my skin, I feel each move like a caress against my bare skin. Unlike the featherlight strokes of his finger earlier, the movement of the marker is sure and purposeful. There’s intention behind each lash, and my mind tries to piece together what all the lines would reveal once completed.

“What are you drawing? I ask after thirty minutes of silence.

“None of your business.”

“What?” I laugh out, surprised but also not by the gruffness of his answer.

“Fuck,” he mutters before raising his voice. “I need you to pull your pants down.”

“What?” I repeat, but this time with an entirely different tone. “First my shirt and now my pants? Jesus, Wolf, if you wanted me naked, you could have just stayed at my apartment on Friday.”

“For fuck’s sake, Serena. I need to continue the sketch lower, but the waistband of your jeans is blocking me. I have a sheet that you can put over yourself if you feel uncomfortable.”

I turn my head and consider him, taking in the slashes of his eyebrows and the stern set to his jaw.

“Fine, but hand me the sheet.” Putting my hands by my chest, I push up until I’m able to rest on my knees and pop the button on my straight-leg jeans. I silently curse myself that I didn’t wear leggings or sweatpants, where the waistband could have just been rolled down to accommodate Wolf’s demand.

Shimmying the denim down, I let the jeans rest against my thighs and grab the paper covering from Wolf’s outstretched hand. Like a misguided gentleman, Wolf’s eyes remain averted, giving me the semblance of privacy as I strip to near-indecency.

Laying back down, I drape the sheet over my lower back. “Is this from a gynecologist’s office? It feels like the coverings I use when I go for my annual check-up. I’m decent, by the way. You can look now.” I watch as Wolf turns his attention back to me, his eyes immediately catching on the sheet covering my lower half.

“Can I tuck this into your underwear? It’s still too high.”

“Fine.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, Wolf’s hands are on me, rolling the edges of the sheet into the modest boy shorts I chose for today. In romance novels and movies, the women are always depicted in matching lingerie sets, perfect pairings that make them look like seductresses ready to pounce. Me? My black lace demitasse bra may be cute, but my boy shorts are covered in donuts with the words “Bite Me” across my ass.

“Nice panties,” Wolf chuckles.

“Shut up,” I mumble. Wolf’s low laughter fills the room as he continues to tuck the sheet inside my underwear.

“To answer your question, they’re from the hospital. I get them for the people who don’t want or aren’t comfortable with being fully exposed when getting a tattoo in a location that requires the removal of clothing or undergarments. Mostly women use these, but I’ve had a few men cover up their dicks when I give them an upper thigh tattoo,” Wolf explains. “I pick them up from my aunt, Celeste’s mom. She’s my mom’s sister, so we’ve always been pretty close.”

I absorb his words, silently touched by the care he shows his clients in preserving their modesty if they wish.

“Alright, you’re all set. I’m going to start drawing again, so just stay still, the same as before. Okay?” I don’t say anything, letting my silence act as an affirmative while he places the paper back on my skin. Shifting it around, I assume that he’s trying to match up the lines of the drawing before he resumes. His hands still, pressing down on my back before I feel one hand lift, replaced by the smooth caresses of the marker. I close my eyes, letting Wolf’s steady strokes and smell lull me into sleep.

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