“Did you hurt yourself?” he asks, his eyes never leaving mine, and I shake my head.
“You softened the fall.” I scrunch up my nose, and his fingers tighten on my hips. I lean forward, tugging at the collar of the old shirt around his throat. “Why do you still wear those?” I ask him about the dog tags. The chain is heavy over his skin, and I run my finger along the metal as my eyes drift to his tattoos beneath.
“Habit.” He scowls.
He watches me with careful glances, and I don't ask as I tuck my fingers into the hem of his shirt and push it up his stomach. He lets me with a small grumble as he lifts his arms. Once free of his confines, I pull them in and hold them in my palm. They’re beat up, but the engraving of his name is still strong and forever etched in the metal. I let them go gently, and they fall against his skin.
It feels silly to be so enamored by him, and he never takes his eyes off me, but I take my time to admire his impressively large frame. The broadness of his chest, the perfect combination of old muscle and new weight, he’s rigid but soft. It’s contradictory andfucking hot. I exhale quietly, letting out the sexual frustration that courses under my skin, and drop the shirt to put my hands on his stomach. He inhales a shaky breath as my fingers dance across the daisies tattooed on his chest.
“They’re so delicate,” I study them carefully, “any specific reason there’s six?” I count them carefully and watch his throat bob uncomfortably as he shakes his head. I lean down and kiss the petal that crosses over his collarbone, where the silver chain rests. “And this one?” I point to a section on his bicep. The rest of his tattoos are so heavy in comparison to the stark design of the daisies.
“I like foxes,” he says so simply that I snort. “What?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head. It’s an odd notion for him to justenjoysomething when his entire personality is calculated.
“You’re telling me that every single one of these means something?” His knuckles rake up my arm and over my shoulder before his finger hooks into my strap and pulls it down. “That one,” he brushes his thumb over the jellyfish where the inky tentacles spread out and touch everything over my shoulder and tangle into a collection of ocean filler like seaweed and coral.
“It’s a man-of-war jellyfish,” I tell him. “They’re pretty, and dangerous.”
Brighton hums, “and that.” He points to my chest, his fingers tingling over the ink just enough to make my body shiver. It’s the biggest piece I have, an octopus painted in dark lines of black that cascades over my chest, its arms mixing with the rest of my tattoos.
“Octopuses are some of the smartest animals in the ocean; there’s not a box you can trap them in that they can’t get out of.” His eyes flicker to meet mine.Yeah, that means what you think it does.He frowns and keeps exploring.
“What are these?” he asks, leaning in slowly to kiss my skin.
“Mantis shrimp, tiny little things, but their punch is comparable to a .22 caliber bullet,” I say with excitement. “And these are dragon slugs. One of the most beautiful, but super poisonous. There’s a vampire squid…” I lift my arm and flex to show him my bicep.
“You really like the ocean that much?” he asks me with a cautious expression.
“Oh, I’m terrified of the ocean. Won’t even go in it,” I admit, and it takes everything in him not to question me further. I can see it on his face as he opens his mouth and closes it again.
“Okay, tough guy. What’s the meaning behind the scary raven?” I poked his chest.
“Death.”
I inhale.Alrighty then, there he is.“And that?” There are a few other tattoos on his arm, but I’m more concerned about the scar that wraps around his torso.
“Caught on a piece of scrap metal fresh out of basic training, it was just a scratch.” He shrugs like it means nothing, but it’s rigid, feels like it was deep just by the way the skin healed in a corded river up his ribcage. It tells me that it was never just a scratch.
“And this?” My fingers brush against a tattoo that at first I thought was a butterfly, but upon closer inspection, it’s a moth. I dip down to admire the way it tangles into the scarred skin in the most delicate way.
“It’s a moth,” he pauses, and I look up at him with my brows scrunched, “...for Ri.” Her nickname is a surprise; I’ve never heard him call her that until today. He swallows tightly, clearly not knowing if he should lie or be honest, but I’m glad he told me the truth. I curl down further, pressing my lips to it and feel his body stutter beneath my touch.
“Okay, how about this?” He points to a small tattoo that screams Boone in a gentle deflection that gives him the chance to breathe again.
“Is that a worm?” I tuck down to get a better look at it as he pulls down his sweats over his hip. I lick my lips and try to concentrate on the ink and not the sharp lines of his pelvis, or the trail of dark hair that leads beneath the fabric. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Means don’t make bets with Kaia Keegan.” He raises an eyebrow.
“There’s no way,” I start to laugh, brushing my fingers over it, and Brighton’s hips stir beneath me, making it very clear that I’m still sitting in his lap. “You’re too smart for that shit.”
“Drinking impairs intelligence, Hellcat.”
He reaches up, pushing his hand into my hair and moving it out of the way of his lips. “What are these ones?” he asks–the star, the sun, the moon, and the cloud.
“Addy, Sunny, Kaia, and Cosy,” I say to him, and our eyes lock for a brief moment before he smiles and kisses each one that trails along the base of my neck behind my ear. I try to hide the tiny yawn that leaves me, but he catches it and pulls back.
“Bedtime,” he whispers as he kisses my jaw.
