“You sure?”
“Stop asking me that.”
Fair enough.
I work her sweater up and off, then the tank underneath, and she’s in black lace that makes my brain stutter.
I kiss down her neck, her collarbone, lower. When I take her through the lace she arches off the couch with a gasp. I unhook her bra with one hand and she laughs breathlessly.
“Smooth.”
“Practice.”
“Should I be jealous?”
“Of what? Hockey equipment?” I trace my tongue over her nipple and she stops laughing. “That’s the only thing I’ve practiced unhooking in the last five years.”
“That’s—oh god—that’s really sad.”
“Feeling sad for me?” I move to the other side and she threads her fingers through my hair.
“Little bit—fuck, that’s?—”
Her whole body is responsive. I memorize every reaction—whatmakes her gasp, what makes her arch, what makes her fingers tighten in my hair.
I’m working my way lower, hand sliding down to unbutton her jeans, when she suddenly tenses.
“Wait.”
I freeze immediately. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I just—” She sits up slightly. “I can’t believe I finally get to see it.”
“See what?”
“Your tattoo. The full thing.” Her fingers rest on my waistband. “You keep showing everyone glimpses but I want to see where it actually goes.”
“You want a private showing?”
“Obviously, Roman. It’s been weeks.”
I stand and work my jeans open. Her eyes track every movement as I push them down, revealing the constellation that starts at my knee and winds upward.
The stars climb my thigh, coordinates inked between them, disappearing under my boxer briefs at mid-thigh.
She sits up on the couch, eyes tracking the ink. “Higher than I expected.”
“That’s the point.”
“Can I—” Her hand reaches out and traces the pattern, following stars upward.
Her touch is light, deliberate, and when her fingers slip under the hem of my boxers to follow the final stars, my breathing changes completely.
“All the way up here?” she asks, voice dropping lower.
“Yeah.”
She hooks her fingers in the waistband and pulls down slowly, watching my face the whole time.
