I grip her waist, pull her tight against me, and she makes a sound that goes straight through me.
“This is such a bad idea,” she breathes against my mouth.
“The worst,” I agree, kissing down her neck, feeling her pulse racing under my lips.
“I’ve been thinking about this,” she admits, breathless. “Since the supply closet.”
“Just since then?” I pull back to look at her.
“Since you showed up at 6 AM that first day, all grumpy about five-pound weights.”
I laugh against her throat. “I’m still grumpy about those.”
She shifts in my lap, intentional and deliberate, and my laugh turns into a groan. Then her hand slides down between us, palming me through my shorts.
I hiss, hips bucking involuntarily.
“Moxie—”
“I want to see it,” she says, squeezing gently, and I have to close my eyes against the sensation. “The whole tattoo. All of it.”
“Now?” My voice comes out strangled.
“You showed everyone else. My turn.”
“I showed them my thigh.”
“And now I want the rest.” She’s still touching me, making rational thought impossible. “Unless you’re shy?”
“Shy?” I manage a laugh, though it comes out breathless. “You’re the one who keeps getting interrupted before you can see it.”
“So show me. No interruptions.”
“You sure you can handle it?”
“I can handle it.”
“Because once you see where it ends, there’s no going back.”
“Going back from what?”
“From knowing exactly what you do to me.”
I lift her off my lap and stand up, ignoring the way my body protests the loss of contact.
“Still want the full tour?”
“Stop stalling.”
I hook my thumbs in my shorts. “Last chance to back out.”
“I swear to God, Roman, if you don’t?—”
Her phone rings.
We both freeze.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” she says.
