Page 119 of Show Me How
Shelly loosens her hold on my arm, patting it softly again. “It’s worth a conversation. You’ll regret it if you don’t and run out of time instead.”
The hair on my arms lifts when I hear Millie’s laugh. I turn away from Shelly instantly, needing to see for myself why she’s laughing like that. Lacey appears first, her arm linked through Millie’s as they sway down the hallway to a song playing from one of their phones.
Millie points at me, beaming so wide it’s got to hurt. “Dance with me!”
Before I answer, I steal a look at the four empty wine bottles on the countertop, confirming my suspicions. “I’m not a dancer, princess.”
“Not even for me?” Her lip juts out, and I curse.
Lacey lets go of her, skipping to Shelly and leaving me my opening. I swallow, accepting that I’ll never be the barking kind of guy, but if she wants dancing, I can figure it out.
I cross the room to her, keeping her pinned under the weight of my gaze. She doesn’t stop smiling, not even slightly. And when I take her into my arms and follow her lead, I think it even grows.
35
MILLIE
I don’t rememberthe last time I had more than one glass of champagne at a party.
Or rather, even attended one that wasn’t thrown by my mother or one of her colleagues. Last night wasn’t even truly a party. Not in the true definition. Yet, I had more fun in those few hours than at any real party I’ve ever been to.
That’s why I can’t get frustrated when it was a headache that woke me this morning. I assume it’s due to the sangria that never stopped flowing and my plateful of Shelly’s lemon squares that I don’t think helped suck any of the wine up before I fell asleep.
I expect there to be sun already coming through my sheer curtains, but as I pop one eye open, I’m met with darkness instead. Stretching my legs, I point my toes and turn my head. The man beside me is absolutely never usually in my bed, which means only one thing . . .
Holding my breath, I turn fully onto my side and slide my hand beneath my pillow. Shade doesn’t stir at all when I move. He continues to sleep, snoring so softly it could pass as heavy breathing. The same blanket I’ve got tucked beneath my armpits is heavy, black, and draped around his waist. The bare expanseof his chest is right there beside me, practically begging me to stare at it.
I’m generous with myself this morning and let my eyes wander, soaking up the sight of him so at peace and unaware of how much I’m enjoying the view. There’s no chance for him to get a big head about my attention like this. I can just enjoy right now.
My fingers twitch beneath my pillow and at my hip as I refuse myself a quick touch, not wanting to risk waking him yet. Instead, I push myself up on my elbow and look down at where his chest rises and falls, the pace peaceful. The small black loop is still through his nipple, and it’s a bit overwhelming to try and spend an appropriate amount of time on each tattoo around it. Looking too quickly feels like a disservice to the detail in the designs.
Or that’s what I think before I can no longer avoid the one still healing over his sternum. I inhale through my nose and lean closer, focused on the red that’s visible even in the dark and the look of the raised skin.
It’s so bad.
The crown on my wrist isn’t even itchy anymore. I don’t feel it at all usually, but that? He’s got to feel pain where I’ve ruined his skin.
I finished the entire design on his lap after we . . . had sex, despite how challenging that was for me, both emotionally and physically. He refused to let me separate us, so I stayed on his lap for another hour, still impaled on the erection that wouldn’t soften, tattooing him. I’d love to say my work got better as the minutes ticked by, but I’m pretty sure it got worse. At one point, I thought he was going to have to take over for me out of pure disappointment.
But he didn’t. He never said one negative thing about what I was doing. I was waiting for him to snap at me because I pressedtoo hard with the paper towel or strayed from the stencil despite how hard I tried to focus, even when I knew deep down he wouldn’t. This man did the exact opposite. He just stroked my back and told me about the first time he let Bryce tattoo him, letting me learn without being smothered.
I’ve held myself back from asking him to let me try again on the fake skin I saw in the back room instead. It wasn’t until I sat back just far enough to look at his tattoo completely finished that I stopped caring about how terrible it looked. Pride and excitement swelled too high inside of me.
Now, though? Staring at the painful-looking tattoo, I’m wishing I’d stopped and let him take over after all.
“Might as well just shove me, princess. I could feel you staring at me in my sleep.”
I hesitate to speak, unsure of what to say. Especially when he turns his head and looks right at me, all tired eyes and a drowsy smirk that might be sexier than his dirty one.
“What are you thinking about so hard?” he rasps, his voice thick with sleep.
“Does your tattoo hurt?”
He blinks three times, reaching up to run fingers through his messy hair. The bunching of his arm muscles as he does so is one of the filthiest things I’ve ever seen.
“Which one?”
“Your new one.”
