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“No, thank you,” I tell him with a shake of my head.
He laughs at me. “Most girls would love to be in your shoes right now. An unimpeded view of my chest. Well, damn, they would particularly be creaming themselves thinking of it.”
The crassness in his words causes me to flush all over. “Charming,” I tell him, pretending to be annoyed. But instead, I’m more curious about him than anything.
I’ve known Derek almost my whole life, but something about the man in front of me, the one who is famous and has throngs of women screaming his name, feels different. There’s more of an edge to him than there used to be. He doesn’t want to be vulnerable with anyone except the boys from the band, and even that might get him called a pussy.
“Sorry, Aud. I don’t mean to be an ass,” he admits with a shrug.
“It’s okay. I’ve gotten used to the way you boys speak. Remember, I’ve been around you a long time.”
“Yeah,” he says, then swallows audibly.
It’s then I remember that I’m not wearing a bra. The air conditioning has been turned down since the warmth of the sunburn is heating my body. I had welcomed the cold air when I did it, but now it’s making my nipples stand at attention.
Without thinking, I jut out my chest a bit more to give him a better view. He smirks at me, and my tongue darts out to lick my lips.
“Do you wanna do something?” he asks.
I have no idea what he’s referring to, but a million dirty images flash through my mind. God yes, I want to do something with you. I want you to climb on top of my body and ravish it. I want to place my hands all over the hard lines of your body.
Instead, I reply with, “What do you have in mind?”
“Tattoos,” he says plainly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to be asking me to do.
“Tattoos?” I ask him, making sure I heard him correctly.
“I have an appointment scheduled for tomorrow, up in the city. I bet he could fit you in too. Would you like to get a tattoo with me?”
“You mean like matching?” I ask him. The response is dumb, and I’m pretty sure I know the answer before the words slip from his lips.
“Uh, no, not matching. But I have this lightning bolt design he’s going to do on my back. I thought maybe you’d like to come along and get some fresh ink.”
I just nod, not really answering his question.
“Do you even have any tattoos?” he asks me.
“You know I do. Aiden and have I have a matching jellyfish.” Mine is purple and sits on my hip. Aiden’s is blue and green, mean looking, and on his calf. We were supposed to get them on the same place, but I wasn’t as established as I am in my career now. I was afraid putting a tattoo in such a visible place could jeopardize my relationship with Beachbody.
“Ah, yeah, that’s right. Do you have any others?” His voice comes out low and sultry, like he’s asking me an intimate question. And I guess in a way it is. Tattoos are an intimate part of someone, and they have very personal meanings to them.
“N-no,” I stammer out.
“Would you like to get one with me?” he asks.
“What would I get?”
“Get anything you want. Get a music note for me, get a pretty little flower, get some waves to signify the house. Just come with me and get something.”
I barely hear the rest of his suggestions because he told me to get something that signifies him. It makes my stomach do a little somersault.
“Why would I get something to symbolize you?” I ask him.
He just shrugs it off. “Does that mean you’re going to do it?”
“Maybe,” I reply.
“What’s stopping you? Does your work not allow you to have them? Are they asking you to uphold some squeaky-clean image?”
