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“Well, I brought some sandwiches. You know, from the picnic you missed.” She winks, bites into her soft bottom lip, and my body starts to catch up, my dick stirring in my pants.
She is staring at me, probably expecting a reply of some sort, so I nod. Words have fled my head, which is still kinda foggy. I see her eyes go to the whiskey bottle on the table, and I brace for an outburst, or more questions, or even pity. Judgment.
But again she surprises me. “Kitchen that way?” She points and heads toward it without my input.
As if she’s at home.
I stand for a long moment like an idiot, watching her go, staring at her cute ass and pretty legs, until she disappears into the kitchen, and then I stand some more, listening to the clatter of dishes and silverware. It’s a soothing sound.
Then she’s back, carrying two plates with sandwiches. She places them on the coffee table and bends to switch on the lamp next to the sofa. The yellow light paints the curves of her body, makes the hollow between her breasts darker.
I lick my lips, caught in a fucking trance. Christ, I need a drink. Or a cigarette. Or both.
She walks to me and takes my hand, tugging me toward the sofa. “It’s chicken salad sandwiches. Erin said you like them.”
What’s happening? I let myself be pushed into the sofa and receive the plate. She’s gone for a minute, then returns with tall glasses of juice.
I feel as if I’ve stepped into an alternate universe. I can’t remember anyone ever taking care of me like that. Emma brought me to her home when I was practically an adult, and I took care of myself. Erin cooked for me sometimes, but this…
I put the plate back down. “What do you want?”
“A tattoo?” She smiles and shrugs.
“Fuck.” I press the heels of my hands into my eyes.
“Here.” She scoots closer to me, offering me something.
A pen.
“Are you serious?” My head is pounding, my dick is hard, my thoughts are a mess—and she wants me to draw on her?
Her smile is fainter now. Red colors her cheeks, and her eyes glitter.
I reach for the pen without another thought. Why is it so important to her that I ink her? I don’t get her. She has no need of dragons on her pretty, smooth skin—no scars to hide, no bad memories to fight. What’s on her mind?
She turns, offering me the golden expanse of her slender back. Her tattoo is nestled between her shoulder blades. I don’t know the artist, but the design…
“A butterfly of death,” I whisper. It has a skull on its body, and the sight disturbs me more than it should. I mean, damn, I’ve inked my fair share of skulls and zombies on skin. Dark lines entwine around it, like a crown of thorns. And now I see it—a faint, long scar, thin like a surgical cut.
“Actually, it’s a Death’s Head Hawkmoth.” She glances at me over her shoulder, her blue eyes sparkling, her smile widening. “Acherontia lachesis.”
I frown as I put the pen against her skin and start drawing. I have no picture in my mind, so I just let my hand guide me. “Why?”
She doesn’t immediately answer. She hunches over a little, and I put my hand on her arm to straighten her. She’s warm and smells of sun and grass. I suck in a deep breath.
“Do you know they squeak when you pester them?” she says.
“What?” What is she talking about?
“Death’s Head Hawkmoths.”
Laughter rises in my throat. “And that’s why you got one tattooed on your back? Because it can squeak?”
“Well, it likes honey, too.”
I can’t help it. I laugh out loud. “So you like honey, too.” Another fact to file away.
My drawing is spreading over her ribs, curls and lines. I still don’t know what it is. As I draw, tension is leaving my body. How did she know this could help more than drinking myself stupid?
