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Her hair is slung over one shoulder, her eyes bright with joy as she watches Harlow and Maisie dance around. She’s wearing more makeup than usual, accentuating her cheeks and those full lips of hers.
But when she turns around, my heart starts to race.
“I think he’s having a stroke.” Beck laughs when I choke out a breath. I grab my half-empty bottle, tipping it to my lips and swallowing the remaining liquid before gesturing to the bartender. He quickly takes my order, sliding eight shots of tequila in front of me.
The guys roast me, each of them grabbing their shot as they laugh at my expense, but I’ve got nothing. The only thing I can focus on is why the fuck Beatrice’s outfit has no back, showing off an expanse of golden skin, and how the hell she has a tattoo that covers a great portion of it; a tattoo that calls out to me and begging me to trace every single line and discover the meaning behind it.
“She has a tattoo,” I blurt the moment I’ve downed my two shots. Turning to Nash, I raise a brow, which only makes him laugh harder. “How the fuck does she have a tattoo? And why are they not shooing the guys around them away?”
“The tattoo, I did not know about,” he says, twisting around as he takes her in. Her back is still turned toward us, and at this distance, I can barely make out the ink, only a collection of symbols with flowers. “And the guys, dude, they’re not even doing anything . . . just dancing nearby.”
Nash chuckles, saying something else, but his words don’t sink in as my eyes trace over Beatrice’s back. The urge to go to her, to see what she has inked into her skin forever is overwhelming, and my feet move, carrying me across the floor, before my mind can catch up.
Maisie spots me first, a smirk tipping her lips, while Harlow waves at me, winking as I pass and come to a stop behind Beatrice. My eyes trace over her back, and her shoulders tense, as though she can sense me there, but she doesn’t turn, letting me get my fill as I follow the lines of feathers and flowers running over her skin, surrounding a set of symbols I don’t understand.
Fuck.It’s fucking stunning, like her. The black-and-gray image is drawn to perfection, staining her skin as though it belongs there.
I want to know why and what it means. I want to know everything. All the things I’ve missed, all the moments she’s had in the years we’ve been apart. I want to peel back all her layers and force her to let me in, because this Beatrice? This is a girl I don’t know, and I wonder ifmyBeatrice still lingers somewhere beneath the surface.
Chapter Eighteen
Beatrice
Idaren’tturnaround.The moment Maverick walked into this place my eyes found him. It was as if he had a flashing light above his head, put there just for me. But when he started walking over here, I felt every footstep and his eyes burning into me.
Or my tattoo, anyway.
Had I known we’d find ourselves in the same room tonight, breathing the same stuffy air, I would have covered it. The artwork on my back is something very few people get a glimpse of, and the ones that do, have no idea what it means.
Maverick, though . . . if he looks closely enough, and does a tiny bit of research, he’ll know. Whether he’ll understand, I don’t want to think about it. But he’ll know what it means, and that’s enough to have my skin itching under his scrutiny.
I shoot back the remainder of my drink before letting the glass hang limp in my hand, then spin to face him. He lifts his eyes slowly, confusion and awe swimming in the stormy depths as they trace over my body, heating every inch of me they pass before landing on my face.
“Hey,” I breathe, holding still while everyone around us moves. The music dims and the lights focus on him as he stares at me. At least it seems that way. The crowd disappears until it’s just the two of us. A rush of blood is the only sound reaching my ears as he steps closer, his heat enveloping me.
“Hi.”
“I, uh.” Closing my mouth, I bite my tongue, having nothing to say. A slow grin spreads his lips, his dimples making an appearance, and my pulse gallops, my heart beating a thousand miles a minute.
“You wanna dance?” he asks, his eyes widening slightly and his lips tipping awkwardly, as if he wasn’t expecting the question from his lips either.
My mouth falls open, awhat the hellon the tip of my tongue, but I close it quickly when he shrugs, holding a hand out to me. My eyes widen and I purse my lips, which only makes him laugh as he steps even closer, gripping my hand as he spins me, pressing his chest to my back.
His chest heaves, and his breaths fan over my hair as his chin rests on my head. Hands wrapped around my waist, his fingers burn through the material of my jumpsuit, searing me as he moves his body against mine.
Maverick and I have danced together a hundred times in the past, but not like this . . .neverlike this. We were kids fumbling at family parties, stepping on each other’s toes as we danced around, waving our arms in the air without a care in the world. But now we’re two adults fumbling through something entirely different.
I hold my breath, closing my eyes for a second as I revel in the feel of him behind me, soaking in his heat and the vanilla scent that seeps from his skin, blanketing me.
His hands trail over my stomach, his fingers tracing lines into me as his head dips and his hair tickles my neck as he breathes me in, losing himself to the moment just as I am.
“When did you get the tattoo?” he asks, his lips grazing the sensitive spot beneath my ear. A shiver travels over me, and he pulls in a harsh breath, pressing closer to me. Something digs into my back, my breath shuddering at the feel of him.
“Last year.”
“You never struck me as an ink girl, Bumblebee.”
“I don’t think I was,” I tell him, my voice husky.
