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I worry my lip through my teeth, a million questions bombarding my mind. He doesn’t know I’ve seen this map somewhere else. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘It’s not finished yet,’ he says quietly. ‘A few more sessions to finish off Europe.’
I find Europe, seeing a huge space with missing countries. The same piece is missing on that ancient map I discovered by accident, but I know about a map. Fucking hell. When Becker said it was kept somewhere safe, he wasn’t kidding. ‘You could give the museum the map,’ I say, my eyes still scanning the elaborate detail. ‘You’d still have a copy.’ It’s not like he needs the original to find what he’s looking for. And anyway, I bet he’s photographed this for safekeeping.
‘Call me possessive,’ he mumbles quietly.
I smile, shaking my head in wonder as I study his back again. I touch this time, my finger travelling across the Atlantic to Canada. He needs the missing part of the map before he can finish his tattoo and find what he’s looking for. ‘Where’s the missing part?’ I ask.
He’s quiet for a few moments, and I know it’s because he doesn’t know. The missing piece is part of Europe. Italy is in Europe. Michelangelo was Italian. The most important part of this map is missing, and I sense it’s driving Becker insane.
‘I don’t know,’ he says quietly. I watch his profile carefully, looking for the sadness on his face that will match his tone. ‘But I’m getting close.’
‘How close?’ I ask, almost excited for him.
‘Frighteningly close.’
‘Why is it frightening?’ I ask, frowning.
‘Because it’s taking me to places I never expected to go,’ he whispers, as I continue to take it all in.
I smile at his wistfulness. ‘Where am I?’ I ask, drifting my finger down on to the States.
‘America,’ he answers immediately, smiling. ‘Texas, to be precise.’
My mouth gapes. How the hell? ‘Now?’ I ask, running my touch through the Pacific Ocean.
‘Hawaii.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Am I right?’ He’s cocky. He knows damn well he’s right.
I venture a few inches to the right. ‘How about now?’
‘You’re drowning, princess.’ He laughs, and I gasp, looking down and seeing the tip of my finger is in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.
This time I remove my finger from his back, thinking maybe he can guestimate from the feel of my touch travelling across his skin. And I plonk it right on the edge of the clear flesh where part of Europe should be.
‘Czech Republic,’ he says simply, following up with a yawn. It’s a fake yawn, one that tells me he’s bored of this game.
Without that particular part of the map inked on his back, there’s no solid evidence to confirm he’s right, but I know he is. ‘How?’ I ask, staggered by his ability to identify any country from a touch of my finger.
He turns over beneath me, negotiating my body to allow his change of position before settling me on his groin. His cock isn’t solid, but it isn’t exactly soft either. I gulp down the inevitable heat that rises from my toes and settles in my tummy. ‘I’m well travelled.’
‘It’s freaky,’ I say, planting my palms on his stomach and stroking wide circles.
‘Or a gift.’ He seizes my hands, stopping their exploration of his sharp stomach.
I eye him carefully and try to move them, getting nowhere. He smirks, and I try again. Not even a dash of movement.
‘Tell me how you feel,’ he says, hesitant and regarding me closely.
‘How I feel?’
‘You’ve learned a lot about me.’
‘Oh, you mean that there’s more to you than being a holier-than-thou twat?’
He moves his hands to the tops of my thighs and squeezes playfully, making me grin. ‘I’m holier than most,’ he claims cockily. ‘But not you, princess.’ My smile widens, and he laughs a little, as if not quite believing he just said that. ‘Tell me,’ he pushes.
My answer comes naturally. ‘I feel privileged.’
‘Not frightened?’
I shake my head. I’m only frightened of what he can do to me. I go into my shell, looking away, unsure whether I should confirm beyond doubt what he must already know.
‘I trust you, princess,’ he breathes, knocking my leg to get my attention. I give it to him, but my mind is reeling, trying to figure out what he means by that. Does he trust me with his secrets? Or does he trust me not to fall in love with him?
‘Why?’ I ask instead.
He’s silent for a beat, clearly thinking. ‘My instinct is my best friend. I trust it.’
‘You’ve never shared anything with anyone, have you?’ I didn’t lie. I really do feel privileged, even if I’m still a little stumped by his willingness to confide in me.
‘Never.’ His lips slope into a small, shy smile. ‘You should think yourself lucky.’
My eye-roll is epic. ‘And there’s the holier-than-thou—’
‘Shhhh . . .’ His eyebrow arches and he takes my hands, constricting in warning.
