I shake my head with a wince. “No, I want it to have six steps and be yours. It’s Jake’s ladder.”
His eyes darken with possessiveness, and again, I feel like everything isn’t lost yet. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Gen.”
“Why?”
“It’s one of our rules, remember? No tattoos about someone you’ve known for less than a year.”
“Oh, right. Sometimes, I forget we met so little ago. Then I suppose I could get…”
I think about it, but nothing comes to mind. I really want him to do this because it would be a grand gesture and give us some time to talk.
“Do you trust me?” he asks out of the blue. I don’t even hesitate before I nod. “Then let me decide for you.”
Anything. I’ll give him anything he wants. “I trust you, Jake.”
“You can remove your blouse and get comfortable while I prepare everything,” he offers.
I nod and start with the tiny buttons holding my shirt closed. By the time I’m done with them, he has assembled a few things on a steel tray and is adjusting a lamp. Once the blouse is hanging next to my bag, I unclasp my bra as well and leave it with them.
My chest is bare when he looks at me again, and his eyes zero on my breasts with hunger.
“Cheap shot, red,” he mumbles.
“You said bra area, so I thought it would be in the way. And it’s not like you never saw them before.”
“It never gets old. Come, take a seat.”
I diligently follow his instructions and take my place in the weird chair before him. His eyes are locked on my nipples, and I bite back my amusement. Men are such simple creatures. He’s done slipping on a pair of black latex gloves when I lean back into the seat.
“First things first,” he professionally says before ripping a lengthy piece of paper towel. I’m intrigued at first, but when he lays it on my chest, I giggle. “There, now I’ll be able to focus.”
“You’re so suggestible.”
“You have amazing tits, is all. Now, lean over to your right a little. I’ll need access to this bit right here,” he explains, gently grazing the area he means—on the side of my ribcage, right next to my heart, like I showed him. I ignore the small shivers his touch ignites and comply.
He looks very focused and professional, and I love seeing this side of him. First, he uses a disposable razor to remove the invisible hairs that must be there, and then he wipes the skin with a piece of gauze doused in rubbing alcohol to disinfect it. His expression turns even more serious when he picks up a marker from his tray. At the first touch, I jolt away with a giggle.
“Sorry, sorry,” I say, fighting against my smile.
I’m prepared for the second time, so I contain the tiny electric jolts he triggers.
“You were right,” I decide to say to distract myself.
“About what?”
“The way my parents treat me. It took you one evening with my mother to understand something I couldn’t see for a decade.”
“Sometimes, it’s hard to see clearly when you’re too close to the situation,” he justifies with a shrug.
“But I should have seen it. The day my sister died, I died along with her, in their eyes. They stopped treating me like a daughter—I became a nuisance, a disgrace. No matter what I do, it’ll never be enough to overcome that.”
It seems he’s done with his sketch on my skin because he puts the cap back on and tosses the marker on the tray. When I try to lift my head and look at what he did, he stops me. “I thought you trusted me?”
“I do. I’m just curious.”
“You’ll see it in an hour, an hour and a half. Depends on how often this slips,” he says with a nod at the paper towel hiding my breasts.
I’m tempted to take it away to tease him, but I resist the urge.
