Page 62 of Scorching Sienna

Damon stands in front of me, a transfer paper in his hands. His eyes meet with mine, and then he drops his gaze. My breasts react, my nipples turning into hard, pebbled peaks.

He bends slightly, and then his index finger touches the skin on my stomach, goosebumps immediately erupting at the contact. The feel of his breath as it fans my way too-sensitive skin makes my stomach muscles contract.

“Relax.” Relax. Sure. That is easy for him to say. His skin isn’t sensitized like mine. Reacting to every little thing like a worm does when it's on top of the soil, out of its element.

That small patch of skin on the tip of his finger awakens my critters and stops my breathing as he slowly drags it down.

The torture. Swallowing is hard. My mouth is suddenly dry and full of cotton wool.

His finger drags all the way down until he gets to the fabric of my jean skirt.

Slowly, like the panther he is, he unbuttons my skirt, causing my lungs to short-circuit and forget how to breathe as I watch in fascination. At this rate, I would suffocate.

He folds the left side over, the area just above my matching baby blue panties, now on display.

I look away and finally take a deep breath, praying I won’t combust into flames from what is just part of the tattoo process. The way his finger caresses the spot before he pushes the transfer paper against myskin makes me think this tattoo session would be anything but usual.

How was I going to cope with him down there? So close to my private area, for god only knows how long the tattoo would take to complete. I wouldn’t survive. And if I did, I would be a wreck.

“There. It’s perfect.”

When he moves out of the way, I gasp, stepping towards the mirror. Is this a coincidence? For a minute, I look at the tattoo and then at Damon, but his face gives nothing away.

“A moonflower. It only blooms in the dark. You like them, right? I saw them on your laptop the day you moved.” I don’t recall leaving my laptop out, but anything could have been possible that day.

Damon stands behind me as I take in the intricately designed flower that looks perfect on my skin.

“It will look different once it has been tattooed on. And it will have some abstract coloring. All the colors of a rainbow for my rainbow.”

My eyes meet with his again.

While he didn’t open up to me about many things, I also doubt he was this thoughtful with anyone else. Did that mean he cared for me? He has never actually said the words. But then, neither have I.

“It’s absolutely stunning, Damon. You are very talented.”

Where did he learn to draw and tattoo? The more time I spent with Damon, the more I learned about him and the more questions I had.

It was also ironic that both my stalker and Damon seemed to have this weird obsession with rainbows and flowers. The pots my stalker gave me were rainbow colors. They even arrived in that order. And then all the flower seeds that came with a beautiful quote or saying. Original words. Not taken from some other source. That’s what it felt like, at least. Each one spoke to me like whoever had written them knew me.

I shiver, thinking how those things I loved so dearlycould have come from someone who hurt me—The Reaper. Or could they? I eye Damon, wondering. But surely not. He would have told me by now if he had sent them to me, right?

“Are you cold? Or is it something else?” Damon doesn’t miss a thing.

“It’s nothing,” I blurt out, smiling and refocusing on the beautiful design, which would soon be a permanent part of me.

“It will even look good when you are pregnant.” Damon's offhand comment before he walks off toward the tattoo bed closest to the door has my mouth dropping open.

I hadn’t thought about that. Not the tattoo and being pregnant. Just pregnant. Not in a long time, anyway. The last time I thought about children was when James died. I never saw myself having children with anyone else but him. Until now.

My eyes meet with brown ones in the mirror, his head dipping in silent command.

I turn around, Trixy suddenly nowhere to be seen. Thankfully. I like it when it is just me and Damon. Alone. And with how this felt, it was probably better we were alone—less chance of me embarrassing myself in front of an audience.

By the time I reach the bed Damon is sitting in front of, my cheeks are cherry red. The way his gaze stokes my skin with every step towards him has me teetering on the edge of delirium. Scared and excited crash together, making this weird adrenaline cocktail that makes me feel a bit high.

“On.” His voice is husky.

While I climb on, Damon removes his jacket, the black T-shirt underneath molded to his gorgeous muscular body—one I have memorized and whose images come tumbling through my mind.

---