“Not quite,” I breathe, kissing the back of her hand, then trailing my mouth lower. “But I’m gonna lose my shit the first time I get to call youwife.”
She laughs. Soft. Real. Like it lands somewhere deeper than she expected.
The woman I love wears my art on her skin like it’s a badge of honor, inked in trust and permanence.
And I’ve never been more fucking sure of forever.
The artist smooths ointment over the tattoo with careful fingers and wraps it in a thin band of medical film, securing it tight against Sable’s skin. The wing curves perfectly, the way Bash suggested I draw it. Every feather inked in with the kind of detail that makes my chest ache. She looks down at it, eyes wide, as if her mind is just now registering what her body now carries.
Mine has.
It was always meant for her skin, her story, her soul.
We thank the artist and head out, hand in hand. It’s still early afternoon, warm and slow, the kind of day that wants you to go home and do nothing.
Back at the loft, we kick the door shut behind us and drop our stuff near the couch.
Bash is still at school for another forty-five minutes.
Sable stretches her arm out carefully, already wincing at the soreness. “No way I’m going back to the shop today. This thing hurts.”
“That’s your dominant arm too,” I say, moving to the kitchen to grab her a glass of water.
“I know,” she groans, holding it up and mimicking a sanding motion that accidentally—and very clearly—looks like a hand job. She pauses mid-move, eyes narrowing in mock offense.
“Nope,” she says, shaking her head. “That’s no good. Can’t even pretend to be productive.”
I smirk as I step back toward her, glass in hand.
“Oh, I can think of something else we can do for forty-five minutes.” I hand her the water, brushing her hip with mine. “Your arms are not required, but your legs are mandatory.”
She barely has time to laugh before I scoop her up, one arm under her knees, the other at her back. She yelps and clings to me, grinning through a wince.
“Hex!”
“Shhh,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her shoulder with care as I carry her to the bed. “Doctor’s orders.”
I lay her down slow, careful not to jostle her arm too much. She hisses when her elbow brushes the sheet, and I freeze.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” she says, breathy. “Just… don’t touch the wing.”
I give her a grin that feels downright predatory. “Your elbow is nowhere near where I want to be.”
Sable bites her lip as I slide my hands down her hips, easing her pants past her thighs, then off entirely. I drag my palms up her inner thighs, moving with the kind of patience that says I’ve got time. Because I do. For her, I always do.
“I’ll keep away from your wing,” I murmur, dragging my mouth along the soft skin of her hip. “But everything else is fair game.”
Her breath catches as I nudge her thighs open. She’s already warm. Already wet.
“I love you,” I say against her skin. “The way you taste. The way you lose yourself for me.”
She lets out a soft, trembling sound as I kiss her inner thigh. The hand on her good arm fists the sheets.
Long, deep strokes of my tongue make her hips twitch. Soft moans turn into broken gasps. I don’t stop. I don’t rush. I keep one hand on her stomach to keep her still, the other gripping her thigh while I worship her with my mouth.
Her breathing goes ragged. She tries to muffle her sounds, biting her lip, eyes squeezing shut, but I don’t let up. I want her to feel everything. To let go.
