The way he looks concerned, makes me feel warm and fuzzy in places I didn’t know could feel this good.
“I can take a look afterwards, if you want,” he offers, keeping his voice low.
My skin erupts in goosebumps, and it’s definitely not from the cold.
We order food, but eating is neither of our concern. Every time I reach for the bread or water, our fingers brush, and it’s like being electrocuted. We both freeze, then pull away, only to do it again a minute later.
Ben talks tattoos the way some people talk sports, intense, passionate, and alive.
“It’s about giving people something real. They come in with all this hurt, or hope or whatever, and I get to make that permanent. Doesn’t matter if it’s pretty or fucked up. If it means something, I’ll do it.”
The emotion in his words knocks me sideways. “That’s…incredible,” I say, and I mean it.
He shrugs. “I want to make people feel like they’re not invisible.”
The irony is not lost on me.
I tell him about art history, my professor with a bad toupee, and the time I wrote a whole paper comparing Greek statues to pin-up tattoos and got an A, because the teacher was too shocked to fail me. Ben laughs so hard he almost spits out his drink.
We talk and talk, the hours slipping by, until the restaurant empties around us. His eyes keep dropping to my mouth, then back up. Making my adrenaline spike each time.
The check comes, and he snatches it up before I even see, signs the slip, glaring at the waiter if he tries to argue. He’s protective, stubborn, a little old-school.
I love it.
He helps me into my coat, his palm warm and steady on my lower back. The touch runs straight down my spine.
Outside, the cold bites, but Ben wraps an arm around my shoulders, steering me to the parking lot. I let myself lean in, soaking up the feeling of being claimed.
The truck is warm, still holding the heat from earlier. We settle in, and for a second, it’s weirdly quiet.
He turns to me with a serious look on his face, his gaze darker than ever.
“April?”
I look up. “Yeah?”
He reaches over, tips my chin up with his thumb, his other hand cupping my cheek. The way he touches me is so careful, like I’m made of secrets.
“Can I kiss you?”
I can’t even find the words to answer. The only thing I can do is nod. Desperate.
He doesn’t hesitate. His lips crash into mine, hot and hungry, and every inch of me sparks to life. I grip his shoulders, needing to anchor myself, because holy shit, it’s everything.
He groans, his fingers sliding into my hair, tugging, and it’s enough to make me gasp. The kiss goes from sweet to dangerous in the blink of an eye. It’s the kind that leaves you gasping for air, clinging for more.
I climb halfway over the console, needing to be closer, pressing my chest against him. His hand finds my thigh, squeezing tight. When we break for air, we’re both panting, eyes glazed and lost in each other.
He presses his forehead to mine, breathing hard.
“I could kiss you all night,” he whispers, mouth hovering over mine.
There’s no hesitation. I fist his shirt, pulling him in for more, and I attack his lips again, all teeth and tongue.
It’s a dirty want.
This time, it’s even messier. I slide my hands up under his jacket, skimming muscles and warm skin. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss. His fingers dig into my thigh, pulling me even closer.
