Tell me all the things she’s been keeping from me.
Let me pin her down and fuck her into submission.
Maybe all of the above.
I listen for any sign she’s awake, but the room next to mine is still and quiet, and there’s no indication she is when I peek out into the hall. A shower is the first order of business, to wash away the reek and peel off the bits of film covering my fingers. Eamon has done most of my tattoos. Some of them were at my request, but most were because I liked the pain and he needed the distraction. Over the years, I’ve accumulated so many that I’m running out of room as his canvas. One of these days, he’ll have to find a new one.
The Saniderm comes off relatively easily, though it always feels like I’m peeling off a layer of flesh, no matter how much I soak the surrounding area. I wash the sensitive skin with antibacterial soap, then dry the new tattoos with a clean towel and apply a light film of Aquaphor. They’re small, but they’re on my hands, so they’ll require a little more attention than tattoos in a less exposed part of my body.
Or maybe I want to baby them because of what they are.
A bottle of water clears away some of the muddiness from my thoughts, and aspirin does the rest.
When I glance up, I see Catriona in the fogged-over mirror, standing at the doorway to the bathroom, wearing a pink camisole and jeans. Her shoulders are bare, framed by delicate straps of lace on her upper arms. Her golden-blond hair tumbles from a clip at the back of her head.
Having just spent the past half hour thinking of her, seeing her appear out of nowhere does something primal to me.
“Do you have a second?” Her voice is still husky with sleep, but her eyes are clear. Based on the way she doesn’t look away from my face, I can tell the sight of my half-naked body is distracting her. “Or I can come back. I didn’t want to wake you, but I heard the shower, so I tried to call for you.” She swallows hard. “The, um, door was unlocked.”
My chest warms under her attention. And she hasn’t even seen the tattoos yet. “Good morning to you, too, Mrs. O’Connor,” I say, just to see her eyes flash with indignation.
Catriona sucks in a breath, and my eyes drop to her mouth, where she’s biting her lower lip. “Right. Yes. Um, good morning.” It doesn’t escape my notice that she doesn’t correct her name. Pleasure rolls through me, but I don’t let it show on my face. “Well, I don’t want to keep you. I just wanted to give you a heads-up that I have a meeting with my, um, advisor this afternoon. So I’m going to be a little late. I didn’t want Bren or Tadhg to freak you out, so will you give them a heads-up?”
“Of course,” I say, and use another towel to blot the water streaming from my hair.
She blinks. “I’m sorry, are you still drunk right now? Because if I’m not mistaken, you just agreed with me. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
Giving her a sly smile, I move to leave the bathroom, and she holds her position until I’m within inches of pressing against her from knees to chest, then she backs away to let me out. Her footsteps are close behind as I move to the bedroom, the oneI’m supposed to be sharing with my wife, but that is noticeably lacking any of her things. When had I gone from wanting her as far away from me as possible to imagining her here every morning when I wake up?
Maybe it’s her name inked into my skin, my ring on her finger, and that she carries my last name that’s causing me to lose sight of all my previous objections to having her as my wife.
I study the bed and give half a thought to persuading her to lie on her back instead of letting her go to school. She’d fight at first, but if I got my mouth on her cunt, I bet I have a fifty-fifty chance I could convince her. Maybe seventy-thirty. She seemed to like the things I could do with my tongue.
She makes a sound of discontent in the back of her throat, and my attention returns to her face, then trails down her body. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
Before she can answer, she zeros in on the thin, glossy patches of skin on my knuckles as I turn on the overhead light in the closet. Whatever she’s going to add dies in her throat as I shift to pull clothes from drawers. Humor tempers any lingering hesitation, and recklessness has me undoing the towel, twisting more than necessary as I pull socks, briefs, and whatever the hell else from the drawers.
Enjoying her attention, her indignation, I retrieve a shirt and slacks from the closet. The room is dark and quiet, still as midnight, so I can hear her harsh breathing… and I can hear when she stops as she finally puts the pieces together.
“What the hell is that?” she demands, taking my hands in hers. She’s so shocked, she doesn’t even comment on my nakedness. Should I be offended?
Eamon would die to be here to see her reaction to his handiwork. “They’re tattoos.”
She turns a lovely shade of red. “I know what they are. Why do you have my name tattooed on your hands? Is this some sick joke, O’Connor?”
I glance down at where she’s cradling my hands in hers, her pretty lips pulled into a frown as she tries to find the words to express her frustration. Surrounded by irritated red skin are the dark, black-inked gothic letters, one on each knuckle.
C – A – T – R on my right, and I – O – N – A on my left. When she arranges my hands next to each other, it spells out her name, inked on my skin forever. The thought sends a delicious thrill skating over my nerve endings.
“It’s Eamon’s idea of a wedding present,” I say in a low, gravelly voice. Her hands are on me. Who knew all I had to do to get them there was shock her a little? “I’m sure if you asked, he’d be willing to give you one, too. What do you think? Want my name on you?” At her silence, I muse, “Probably not on your hands, though. Somewhere you can hide under all your pretty pink suits.”
She’s frozen in place as I shift toward her, unmoving as I lift a tattooed hand to those red-tinged cheeks. Her eyes draw up my body, studying the ink on my chest, skating over my lips, until she meets my eyes. Now she notices I’m not wearing anything. The clothes I’d gathered are in a pile on the floor by my feet, forgotten. Her breath hitches as I inch closer, and I take in her lavender and honey scent, letting it fill my nose.
“What about here?” I whisper, thumbing her wrist where she could hide a tattoo with long sleeves.
“Have you lost your mind? Why would you get my name tattooed on you? Is this another one of your stupid family traditions?”
