Imelt. There’s no other word for it.
My chest goes warm and tight, and I lean down to kiss him because I cannot handle the way he says things like that without touching him.
“If women can go through childbirth,” I murmur against his lips, “I can take a few pricks on my skin.”
His eyes flash with a manic heat.
A dangerous, obsessed brightness that makes my breath stumble. “Oh no,” I say immediately. “You’re doing the breeding kink face.”
“I don’t have a breeding kink face.”
“Yes, you do.”
He pretends to laugh it off, but he pulls me into his lap and kisses me long enough that the world outside the windows fades.
We end up naked again, surprise surprise.
But we don’t fuck because I’m sore. But he coaxes me to ride his face until I drip into his mouth. And after he’s groaned deep and lapped up every drop, his hands map every inch of me, his body fitted against mine with a hunger that feels both grounding and overwhelming.
A warm, satisfied sigh precedes him sliding into me, not to fuck but to ‘settle himself’, and he continues touching me, like he can’t stop touching my pulse point with his mouth.
But inevitably, my hunger for him builds and builds until he moves inside me with a deep, rolling pace that stretches time. He comes with a long moan.
Then his voice breaks against my throat. “Where would you get it?”
My body is goo and my brain is scrambled. “What?”
“The tattoo,” he rasps. “Where would you get it?”
I grin, breathless. “Tramp stamp?”
His grip bruises my hips. “Hell no.”
He kisses down my chest, my stomach, my hipbones, then takes my wrist gently between his fingers. “Right here?” he murmurs, kissing the spot just below my pulse.
My head tilts back, eyes closing. “Maybe.” I pause for a second, bite my lip, then I ask, because it feels right. “Write me something for it?” I whisper.
He lifts his head, eyes dark and blazing. “It’ll be my absolute pleasure, baby. And I know a guy here in London.” He looks into my eyes as he licks my wrist again. “He’s a neat freak with a laundry list of requirements though.”
My eyebrows spike. “Requirements?” I snark.
“Yup, it’s a pain in the ass but he’s the best. I fly him to LA all the time to get mine done.”
“And what would these requirements be?”
He shrugs. “He’ll need a blood test.”
Not what I was expecting. At all. “Huh?”
“He mixes ink with blood, sometimes. But even if it’s not your thing, he prefers to work on people with no blood issues.”
“Wow, okay. Does he want an MRI too? The name of my childhood pet?” I snigger.
He doesn’t smile back. “We can nix the whole idea if you don’t want to do it.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s fine. Your tattooist can have a vial of my blood for his sacred rituals.”
His gaze drops to my wrist, and a wicked smile curves his lips. “Perfect. We’ll get it done before we go home.”
