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My eyes lock onto his chest. There, right over his heart, is fresh ink, still red and slightly raised around the edges. My name.
Rosie
Beautifully scripted, elegant, and permanent.
I gasp, stepping closer before I can stop myself. “Is that… my name?”
He glances down at the tattoo. “I believe you can read.”
“Why do you have my name tattooed on you?” I whisper, completely thrown.
“You have my name on your skin,” he says simply. “It’s only fair that I have yours on mine.”
I’m speechless.
Without thinking, I reach out and gently trace the letters with my fingertips. The skin around the tattoo is warm and a little swollen. My anger suddenly evaporates, replaced by something overwhelming and confusing.
“It’s beautiful,” I mutter, almost to myself.
I’m overwhelmed. The sight of my name etched permanently over his heart does strange things to me. Things I don’t want to examine too closely.
Andrei places his large hand over mine, pressing my palm flat against the fresh ink and the steady beat of his heart beneath it.
“Yes,” he says quietly, “it is.”
I slowly raise my head to look at him.
He’s staring down at me with those mismatched eyes, so intensely, that for a moment I forget how to breathe.
The air between us feels thick, charged, and far too intimate for how angry I was just seconds ago.
I still can’t help myself. The question slips out before I can stop it.
“Why?” I whisper, my fingers still resting over his fresh tattoo.
Andrei’s voice is low. “Because I want everyone to know who I belong to.”
I blink up at him, surprised. “Belong to?”
“Yeah.” His eyes hold mine. “I belong to you. We took vows yesterday, remember?”
I swallow hard. “Yeah… I just didn’t… I didn’t think you meant it like that.”
He doesn’t smile, but something softens in his gaze. “We belong to each other now.”
He takes the hand I have pressed to his chest, lifts it slowly, and presses a kiss to the sensitive skin on the inside of my wrist. A shiver races down my spine. Then he trails his lips lower, all the way to the fresh tattoo on my forearm, and kisses it gently, reverently.
My eyes flutter closed at the unexpected tenderness.
He drops my hand, slides his fingers to the nape of my neck, and pulls me closer. His mouth finds mine.
The kiss starts slow, but the second I open for him, he deepens it. His tongue slides against mine in a hot, sensual dance that makes my knees weak. I press my body into his, needing more, and he gives it to me, kissing me harder, hungrier, one hand tightening in my hair while the other grips my waist.
A soft whimper escapes me when he finally pulls back.
“We have to have breakfast with Anya,” he murmurs against my lips, voice rough.
Guilt hits me instantly. For a moment I had completely forgotten about our daughter.
