My gaze drops to his forearms, sinewy and tanned, and conveniently crossed at eye level. Even without the tattoos, they’re extremely sexy. I didn’t know that was a thing until I heard Lucy once call it forearm-porn. Riley’s are veiny, with a light dusting of hair, and under my scrutiny they bunch and flex, the tendons pulling taut. So … yeah. I totally get the appeal now.
He hums a noise, low in his throat, and I look up to find him smirking once more.
“You have lots of tattoos,” I blurt. My cheeks are positively burning now, and I know without looking they’re a flaming crimson.
“I do,” he agrees, his eyes sparkling with mirth.
“Can I … see?” I ask hesitantly.
“Sure.” Grinning, he shoves up his sleeve so his entire arm is exposed to his shoulder and then props his elbow on the bar, putting it on display before me. My hand reaches out on its own, and before I even realize it, I’m caressing the colorful artwork.
Oh, God.
I snatch it back as though burned, sucking air through my teeth.
Riley lets out a choked laugh. “It’s alright. You can feel me up any day, Sunshine.”
My eyes snap to his face, finding him biting his lip. When he winks at me, I don’t correct his use of the old pet name.
I am insomuch trouble.
Still, I reach out, glancing up once more in question, before running my fingers over this patterned skin at his nod.
“Oh!” I exclaim in surprise, never having felt a tattoo or even seen one this up close and personal before. “It’s actually slightly raised.”
“Some are,” Riley agrees. “Depends on how old they are and how well they healed. Some were done in … let’s say, less than reputable establishments, and have more scar tissue.”
“Huh,” I say, more to myself than to him. I wonder where thoseless reputableplaces were and why he went there. I continue to feel up and down his arm, tracing the lines, taking note of the varied designs. Some appear to be connected—larger artworks depicting things like vines and barbed wire woven together. Others are smaller individual designs I suspect were done at different times.
“What do they all mean?” I breathe out, slightly alarmed at how entranced I am.
“Most represent different places I’ve been. Things I’ve done and locations I’ve called home. The vines and wire were added later to make it appear more cohesive once my collection started growing to encompass much of the arm.”
I look up at him with a raised eyebrow.
“This one, for example,” he says, pointing at a mermaid whose tail winds around the barbed wire, “is for a boat I worked on briefly near Bar Harbor called theSiren’s Song. I didn’t last long there.”
I pass my fingers lightly over the mermaid, watching in awe as goosebumps rise on his skin in the wake of my touch. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one so affected by these interactions.
He clears his throat and points at another near his elbow, this one of a tumbleweed. “This is for Albuquerque, New Mexico.”
“What did you do there?”
“Worked in a diner.”
“Don’t tell me you cooked,” I tease, remembering the time he tried to make me egg salad sandwiches for a picnic. If you’re wondering if it’s possible to burn hard-boiled eggs, the answer is yes. Yes, you can.
“Not there,” he answers, “but I have.”
“No way.”
“Way. I’ve worked as a line cook and a short-order cook.” He points at what I’m guessing is a restaurant logo on his inner forearm.
I shoot him a skeptical look.
“I’m actually agreatcook.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” I murmur jokingly … but Riley’s eyes flare in excitement at the opening I’ve just stupidly given him.
