"Morning." I pour her a cup of coffee, remembering exactly how she likes it. "Sleep well?"
"Yeah." She takes the cup, our fingers brushing. The contact sends electricity through me. "River's a bed hog though."
"He always has been."
She leans against the counter, studying me over the rim of her mug. "You've been drawing."
I glance down at my hands—there's ink smudged on my fingers. Always is. "How'd you know?"
"You have that look. Intense. Focused." She smirks. "Also the ink. Dead giveaway."
"Observant."
"I try." She sets down her mug. "What were you drawing?"
I hesitate, then pull out my sketchbook from where I'd left it on the counter. Flip to the page I'd been working on since three in the morning when I couldn't sleep.
It's her.
Not stylized or abstract—realistic. Her face, that exact expression she gets when she's concentrating on work. One eyebrow slightly raised, lips curved in the smallest hint of a smile, hair falling over one shoulder. I've captured the exact shade of her hazel eyes, the constellation of freckles across her nose.
She stares at it, her mouth falling open. "That's... that's me."
"Yeah."
"Grayson, this is—" Her fingers hover over the page, not quite touching. "This is beautiful. I didn't know you could draw like this."
"I'm a tattoo artist. Drawing's kind of part of the job."
"No, I mean—" She looks up at me, eyes wide. "This is incredible. The detail, the shading, the way you captured..." She trails off, touching her own face. "Is this really how you see me?"
"Every day."
Her cheeks flush. "What are you going to do with it?"
"Get it tattooed. Probably on my ribs, opposite side from this one." I touch the existing piece on my left side through my shirt.
"You're getting me tattooed on you?" Her voice goes up slightly. "On your body? Permanently?"
"I was always going to." I close the sketchbook. "You're important to me. You're pack. That's permanent."
"Grayson—"
"I called my buddy in Missoula last week. He owes me a favor. I'm driving up next Saturday."
She's quiet for a long moment, just looking at me. Then: "Can I see your tattoos? The ones you have now?"
That catches me off guard. "You've seen them before."
"Not really." Her eyes drag down my chest, and I feel it like a physical touch. "You're always wearing shirts. I've only seen glimpses. Your hands, your neck, that bit on your ribs that one time..."
"You want to see my tattoos."
"I want to see all of them." Her voice drops slightly, and I smell the shift in her scent. Honey-sweet arousal mixing with her cinnamon-apple. "Take off your shirt."
Fuck. When she uses that tone, commanding and breathless at the same time, my cock takes immediate notice.
I pull my shirt over my head slowly, watching her watch me.
