Page 3 of Mr. Match

Her tattoos.

Katya.

In her main profile pic she’s wearing a black sweater with a white blouse underneath, so the rounded collar peeks out from around her neck. She’s sitting demurely, leaning forward like she’s listening to someone talk. This picture cuts off her head but I can see her neck. The collar is high and her golden-blonde hair is covering some of it. But I search for the identifying mark anyway.

If I squint, I can just make it out.

This picture is not why her profile was flagged. It’s the stuff she’s got inside the profile that has her in my ban folder today. Three videos of herself, naked from waist to neck. Her breasts are large and so are her nipples. Perfect, tightly bunched, nipples.

Just the way I remember them.

I click play on the first video before I can stop myself.

She comes to life, one hand reaching over to pick up a paintbrush.

Jesus Christ. She’s gonna perform for me.

The paintbrush leaves the frame, then returns, covered in black ink. She draws in a breath and lets it out. And even though there is no sound, I think I can hear her.

She touches the brush to her body and begins to write.

“Sit still, darlin’,” I say, the tattoo machine hovering over her shoulder. “Don’t make me fuck up.”

Her eyes dance with excitement and that sexy tongue darts out of her mouth, caressing her upper lip.

I know there’s no more time for sexy stuff though. She is leaving tonight. Would be gone already if I hadn’t talked her into coming over to Sick Boyz with me at two in the morning.

I touch the needle to her scarred skin, expecting her to wince, or tremble, or maybe even jerk away.

But not my girl. She doesn’t even grit her teeth.

I draw the letters. Just seven of them. Just two words.

I do it again on her ribs, just a few inches below her armpit. A very tender spot for a tattoo. Then again over her hip. The scar tissue here is thick and I have to drag that needle through it to get those final seven letters.

The rest she has to lie down for. I write it deep down on her lower abdomen. There is no scar tissue to cover, it’s just a simple claim of what I consider to be mine.

You express me better than I express myself.

You shall be more to me than my poem.

I return to the present and sigh. Why is she back? I wonder. Why her? Why now? Why me?

It wasn’t a relationship. Not at all. But it was several months of regular dates. I was… what? Twenty-four? The Mister shit was well behind me, the dating site was just picking up steam, and for the first time in my adult life I had plenty of money that I didn’t feel obligated to spend wisely because it hadn’t come from my parents.

Katya.

God, I liked her. She was so…

Young.

I actually laugh out loud as the word pops into my head.

She was seventeen. For a while I thought she was lying about her age because she did not look seventeen.

I didn’t care anyway. Even after all that Mister bullshit, I didn’t care.

I took one look at her and fell pretty hard.