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The sun has long since set, and the stars above are brighter than the town lights we’re overlooking from where Logan parked the bike. When we got here, we switched positions so I could sit up front with his legs on either side of me. He paled when I asked if I could ride the bike and instantly shot the idea down.
Someday.
His voice cuts through the gentle hum of the wind. “Your turn to tell me something no one else knows.”
I lean back against his chest, my hands still gripping the handles as I take a steadying breath, or maybe I need the breath because the feel of his body against mine is warm and intimate.
Too intimate and not enough.
“Promise you won’t laugh,” I say, echoing his earlier condition.
“I’m not promising anything. You laughed at me. I’m going to laugh at you.”
I roll my eyes, a smile pulling at the corners of my mouth despite the fluttering anxiety in my stomach. “Fair enough,” I agree before looking back at him from over my shoulder. “I want a tattoo.”
He doesn’t laugh. I’m not even sure he’s breathing. Instead, he stiffens behind me.
The lack of response is more unnerving than the anticipated laughter. “You? You want a tattoo?”
I nod, well aware of the irony.
“Seriously?”
“I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”
He blinks.
Then blinks again.
“What?”
“I’m waiting for the punchline here.”
A little offended, I say, “There is none.”
His silence stretches, the only sound between us being our rhythmic breathing. Then there’s the slightest twitch of his lips before he runs his hand over his beard. “Where do you want it?”
I stand and put my foot on the seat before pushing the hem of my jeans past my ankle. The skin is no longer raised or red, but the scar is still visible. “Here.”
He looks at me for a long second before reaching out and running his thumb along the marked flesh. Even that simple touch has my heart racing in my chest. A burn radiates from his touch like he’s branding himself there.
His shoulders tense. “What happened?” he asks, his voice low.
I’m glad he doesn’t look at me when I lie. “Childhood fall.” The words leave a bitter taste on my tongue, but it’s a wound I refuse to reopen.
Not tonight.
His thumb pauses its gentle tracing, but I still feel the tension coiling in his body.
“I know you’re busy,” I say, trying to inject a casual air into the conversation. “But do you think one of the guys could do it?”
Logan’s grip tightens around my ankle, a silent, unspoken protest. The look he shoots me is one I’ve come to know, one of stubborn determination, a possessiveness I feel all the way to my core.
“There’s nobody inking you but me,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. His hold only leaves my ankle to wrap around my waist, guiding me to sit again. When I do, he gathers my hair in his hand and drapes it over my shoulder. His breath fans over my neck as his mouth grazes the shell of my ear. “Busy or not, pretty girl,” he starts, his voice edging into a growl, “I don’t give a damn. No one touches you but me. Especially not with a needle. Not Kyle, not anyone.”
My breath catches in my throat as I shiver against his chest. Licking my dry lips, I bite down. Anything to stop me from squirming in his lap. No matter how hard I try, I can’t dampen the flutter of excitement low in my stomach or the warmth spreading lower down.
“Understood?” His voice drops, filled with a tension that should frighten me, but it doesn’t. It exhilarates me.
