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Glancing around, I saw my discarded jeans. Tugging away from Max, I grabbed them, fishing around in the pocket.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
I held up the hot-pink paint pen. Going back to him, I held it between us. “Here.”
Both his brows lifted. “I don’t want that.”
I argued, “Yes, you do.”
His stony stare met mine, and I smiled, uncapping the pen. “You want to draw on me too, Max? Maybe mark me up? Write your name right here on my skin?”
I saw the possessive flare in his eyes. But then he said, “I already marked you,” eyes drifting to the hickey.
I shrugged. “Don’t say I didn’t offer.”
I started to toss the pen on the counter, but he snatched it from my fingers with a snarl. “Hold still.”
I suppressed a smile as he curled his hand around my hip and scrawled across my chest. When he was done, he grunted in satisfaction. When I looked in the mirror, I laughed. “Seriously?”
MINE.
“Guess you decided your name wasn’t enough,” I mused.
He rumbled, proud of himself.
Glancing at the marker, I picked it up. “You gonna let me mark you?”
“It’s pink,” he grumped.
“A little color won’t kill you,” I said.
He made a face like he smelled something bad.
“Please?”
He relented instantly, all his hard edges melting, softness shining in his eyes. “Of course you can, baby.”
Ahh, he gave me butterflies.
I stepped back, studying his body like a canvas.
He rolled his eyes. “Just do it already.”
I tsked. “I have to pick a place.”
“It’s going to wash off.” He reminded me irritably.
“Forget it, then,” I surmised, turning away.
He grabbed me by the back of the neck, pulling me in. “Do it.”
“Can I draw a heart?”
“No.”
“I didn’t want to anyway,” I muttered. “It’d probably melt off your skin.”
He laughed.
