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His right arm, the injured one, is covered in tattoos, but they reach around his collarbone and the opposite bicep, too.
They’re covering scars.
The ones on the right side of his body, anyway. The shoulder that didn’t survive the Army in one piece has surgical scars crisscrossing the skin. Like the ones on his hand, they’re only revealed injustthe right light.
I can’t stop staring.
I know it’s rude, I know it’swrong, but I’m compelled. How does he look like this? It’s not even close to being as bright as the dawn, buthe’sbright, like he has an aura. Like he’s lit from within.
Oh, shit.
“Daisy?”
I hear my name from far away. So far away that it takes what seems like hours to have any meaning. In that time, I can’t take my eyes off his scars. Are they lighted, too?
Is this a waking dream?
Probably not. This isn’t what my dreams are like.
But this feeling of being trapped in one is eerily similar. I actuallywilllose it if my dreams start to involve my actual house. That would make it impossible to tell if I was dreaming, and that would be bad.
Or…would it? I wouldn’t mind the dream aspect of my life if Hercules was in them. Shirtless, preferably, because I could look at him like this for the rest of my life and never get bored. Who has muscles like that? Did his tattoo artist take the dips and angles into account?
How much do tattoos hurt, anyway? Do they hurt more if you do them over scars?
I want to know the answerssobadly. None of them make it to my lips.
This is embarrassing.
This should be embarrassing, but it’s not like I can help it. Hercules should know by now.
Would his muscles feel different if he touched me?
“I think you should go back to sleep.”
Hercules has his hand on my elbow and has already turned us toward my bedroom door when my brain offers me the answer a century too late.
“Yeah.”
“Yep.” Sadly, his muscles donotfeel different when he’s guiding me with a gentle touch like a lady out of the past. I’d have to have my body all over his to feel that.
He walks me to the bed, helps me in, and pulls up the blanket. If I could, I’d reach up and pull him down into the bed with me. I’d tell him how flushed my body feels under the sheets. I’d tell him how good he looks, and how I can’t understand why I wouldn’t admit it to myself before.
I can’t sleep. That’s why I was up.
I don’t get a chance to say it before I’m asleep again.
* * *
“Areyou going to tell me about your painting?” he asks on the fourth day. The fifth day?
I’m so tired.
“No.” The problem is, I’m so tired that I can’t bicker with him about staying out of the studio. He’s been spending more time in here every day, sitting out of my circle of light and being totally unobtrusive. Hercules doesn’t push me for answers. It’s getting harder not to give them.
I’m painting, and trying not to let it happen.
The thing is.
