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So he told her so. “I really like your house.”
She scoffed and pulled her beanie off. As her golden hair shifted, Duncan caught a quick glimpse of a long white line on her scalp.
“Thanks,” she replied. “It’s falling down around us, but it’s home.” She shrugged out of her coat and tossed it on the wooden chair beside her dresser, then turned and held out her hand. Duncan took his coat off and handed it over. Immediately he felt cool relief. They’d had their coats on all this time, but until now he hadn’t realized he was hot.
Now, finally, he could see more of her body. Phoebe was slim but not skinny. She had a nice, round ass and a good flare to her hips. Her tits looked about average in size. He took note of all that with a surprising lack of enthusiasm—not because he didn’t like what he saw (he very much did), but because he didn’t actually care. He was already so hooked there was a reasonable chance she could look like Danny DeVito and he’d still be hot for her.
She wore a blue plaid flannel shirt with a white tee under it that he was pretty sure was a beater. The sleeves of the flannel were folded back, and he saw a tattoo taking up most of the inside of her left forearm: a beautiful, realistically detailed image of a dainty little brown and grey bird on a forsythia branch full of yellow flowers.
“That’s really pretty,” he said, catching her wrist in his hand. “Does it mean something special?”
She shrugged. “The bird is a phoebe. I was only eighteen when I got it, and I thought it was a cool idea. Now I understand how lame it is, but ...” She shrugged again.
Brushing his thumb across the satiny skin over her pulse point, he asked, “Why would you say that’s lame?”
“It’s about one step removed from those dudes who tattoo their own name across their belly.” Her head jerked up and she looked wide-eyed at him. “Please tell me I didn’t just insult the fuck out of you because you have your name across your belly.”
Duncan laughed. “No, I do not. I’ve got three tattoos so far. None of them are my name—or on my belly.”
She switched his hold to hers and picked up his left arm, rolling it so his ink there, over the outer part of his forearm and onto his hand, was in full view. “We share a bird theme, I see. What kind of bird belongs to this wing, and what does it mean?”
“It’s a raven’s wing. And it doesn’t mean anything in particular. I just wanted ink there, and my tattoo guy loves doing feathers, so I told him to have at me.”
“You let him pick the design? No input from you?”
“Not much. He drew it, made the transfer and showed me the placement he planned. I wasn’t thinking to get ink on my hand, but when I saw how it would look going from there to my elbow, I said ‘looks great, go for it.’ That’s the extent of my input.”
“Well, it’s beautiful.”
“Thanks.”
She was still holding his arm. “Can I see your other tattoos?”
“Sure. I’ll have to take my shirt off.”
That made her smirk. “Well, I didn’t invite you up here to show you my fabulous talent for interior design.”
With a chuckle, Duncan reached back, grabbed his hoodie, and pulled it off. His t-shirt came with it, and he dropped the whole wad onto the chair, atop his coat. Phoebe stepped right up close and set her hands on his chest.
Her room was on the cool side, but that wasn’t why goosebumps spread across his skin.
Duncan stood and endured the pleasant torment of her exploration. She brushed her hands over his pecs, drawing her fingertips over the line of text on his left one.
“Is this Greek?” she asked.
“Yep. Ancient Greek, I think. Unless I got fucked over, it means ‘Bring the power.’”
Her eyes lifted and met his. “You’re not sure?”
He grinned. “Well, I did some research to get it right, but I don’t speak Greek, so ...” The research he’d done was to ask on a Reddit forum, but there had been some persuasive agreement in the comments.
“That’s a pretty big risk, getting ink in a language you don’t know.”
“It was my first tat. I was sixteen. As a kid I was really into mythology, and I thought it was real hardcore to get ink in ancient Greek. If I ever find out it says something different from what I meant, I’ll cover it.”
“You got your first ink at sixteen?” she asked, as her exploration progressed from his chest to his shoulders, pausing to examine the Bull tattooed over the ball of his left.
“Yeah. Tattooist is a friend of the family, and my family is very okay with ink. If I’d needed parental permission, I’d’ve gotten it.”
