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It’s all about balance, really.
Sebastian settles onto the couch. “Did you tell this Cassie about your book?”
“Not yet.”
“Any reason for that?”
I can’t tear my attention away from his hands wherethey lay on his thighs. They’re large, palms taking up a corner block of real estate on his jeans, thick, long fingers stretching out to the seams. I want them on me.
“It didn’t come up.”
In the low light of the television, his eyes flash dark, but he says nothing.
I’ve failed his challenge, and it hurts.
Drinking in the scruff of his beard, the haphazard way his hair flops to the side, likely from running his hands through it, I realize I want it. An order, a way to redeem myself. To please him.
I’ve been trying—with him at least—to share my book, my fears, my fantasies, and I’m feeling a little lost at sea.
“So—” Wow, my mouth is dry. “Should I…” I don’t even know where I’m going. The sentence stalls before it even leaves the driveway.
Sebastian is patient, letting me sort through the jumble of my thoughts.
There’s no coherence. Just a steady beat of his name and the urge to offer myself up.
In a challenge to myself, I pull up another secret.
“Um.” The sound my throat makes as I clear it isn’t unlike the call of the bald eagle on screen. I’m only sure Sebastian has heard me when he pauses the show. “It’s a compass. My tattoo. It’s… I wanted something that represented a destination, moving toward my future. And I also wanted it to remind me that I can be in control. I’m capable of walking my own path, and that might not be what is expected of me, but I did it.”
I lay my hand over my ribs, where it sits to the left ofmy breast, a sigil to remind me of what I want to achieve. What I have achieved.
“Is that where it is? You don’t have to show me.”
But I want to. Oh, how I want to.
It feels like a dare to lift the side of my shirt until I can feel the lace trim of my bra, then farther still, to pull both up so he can see the tattoo underneath. The whole time, I stare at where his hand is resting on his thigh. Catching his gaze now would surely set me on fire.
For a moment, there’s only the sound of our breathing, and the soft flex of his fingers against denim.
“It stung like hell,” I add.
I wonder if he wants to touch it the way I always want to touch his. Trace the lines, feel the meaning underneath.
He shifts on the couch to face me. I’m glad I chose the beanbag tonight. The distance between us makes this easier. “You know it’s probably the most painful spot you can tattoo, don’t you? Even I haven’t touched my ribs.”
“I guess I can take more than you.”
The hungry way he’s looking at me sends shivers down my spine.
“Is that right?”
All coherent thought melts away when he licks his lips. What am I doing? Silly of me to think I could flirt with him and not be outmatched.
“Which of yours hurt the most?”
There’s no way he doesn’t see how curious I am about them. I’ve never actually seen his sleeves in all their glory, and it’s been a minor obsession of mine since I knew they existed.
“Angel wings on my shoulder.” He raises the sleeve ofhis shirt to uncover the wide span of one wing curling around his shoulder. Protective.
