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He pulls it higher.
All the way to his side.
He turns to show off a tattoo on his ribs—the state of California, adorned with grey and red roses.
"How much did that hurt?" I ask.
"Like a bitch."
"Guys usually say it doesn't hurt."
"Liars."
"Can I?"
"Of course."
My fingers go to his skin. It's soft, but he's bone and muscle beneath it.
God, the feel of him against my fingertips…
My knees knock together.
"Didn't think you were the ink type," he says.
Words dissolve on my tongue. He's so close. And so undressed. And so hot.
My hand knows what it wants.
It traces his ink again and again.
I look up at him. He's so tall. I'm short, yeah, but he's on some other plane of height.
"Can you keep a secret?" I ask.
He pulls an imaginary zipper over his lips in a my lips are sealed gesture.
"I got one last month." I roll my jeans over my right hip to show off my new tattoo. A star. It's a little lopsided, but it's mine.
"Bad ass." He flashes me that million dollar smile. "I have another one to show you." He offers his hand. "Upstairs."
There's weight in the word.
Upstairs isn't for conversation. It's for what I've been dreaming about for the last three years.
"Okay." I down half my drink. Pray for the liquid courage I hear so much about. "Upstairs."
I take his hand and follow him to the bedroom.
***
Dean presses his lips to mine.
He strips me out of my clothes.
He lays me on the bed and warms me up.
Pulls a condom from his jeans. Tears it open. Slides it on.
