Brooding lines sweep across my chest and collarbone.
Marco seems to have a thing about beaches and waves.
His eyes sparkle when he talks about the ocean.
Maybe he grew up there, like me?
“I saw this one the other night,” he says. “It's mesmerising.”
One of my favourites too, even though it took several long painful hours to get it done.
Detailed layers of blue and turquoise ripple across my heart and shoulder.
A living tide.
“Let me listen to the waves,” he says, pressing an ear against my ribs.
My heart surges in response.
“I grew up near the coast,” I say. “Whenever life gets heavy, I go sit by the water.”
The vulnerability of this moment is unexpected.
No one has ever taken a tour of my body with such patience and awe.
“You create a rare kind of art that moves and breathes. Art that can't be washed from a canvas.”
“Stories in motion,” I smile.
His words melt into me.
It means more than I can say.
He seems entranced by the rhythm of my pulse, content to listen for a while longer.
A third kiss lands where inky waves fade into skin.
And then his attention shifts lower, as he kneels in front of me.
I take another sip from my glass.
Desire floods through me in a way that seems impossible to control.
But I’ll wait. I promised him.
“A lollipop?”
Marco lowers the edge of my pants as far as he dares.
We share a cheeky grin.
“I usually keep that one hidden. I don’t know, it seemed funny when I was young and dumb.”
A curious tongue licks the swirl at the base of my hip.
Ohhh fuck.
We’re dangerously close to the line.
