He’s not looking at the ink.
He’s looking at my mouth.
At the way I inhale too jagged.
He doesn’t move
until I exhale.
And the second I do,
he traces the tattoo under the curve of my breast.
My skin catches fire,
his touch pooling between my thighs.
“And this?” he asks, more breath than sound.
“A keyhole.”
He brushes over it,
then his thumb inches to my breast.
He traces the pad of it along the curve,
and the warmth follows.
My next exhale leaves shaky.
His eyes stay on me,
keeping up with my every reaction.
“Why a keyhole?” he asks in a whisper,
his palm dragging up my skin,
spilling summer through my veins.
I suck in a breath, fight the smile.
“To remind myself I have the power,” I say,
words barely making it out.
“No one can manipulate me,
“or use me,
“or break me,
“unless I give them the key.”
I lift my gaze to his.
“I’m in charge of my life, and how I feel.”
