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He sits on the mattress next to my hip. “Give me your finger.”
I hold up my middle finger.
“Cute.”
I keep my left hand under the blanket. “Why? You gonna try to fill in the millimeter of blank skin you left?”
Dom holds up a small jar I hadn’t noticed in his grip.
Only the dim ceiling lights are on, but I recognize the white jar and blue lid. Since I’ve always been fascinated by tattoos, I’ve looked up all the prep and aftercare. And I believe that’s an ointment used to keep your tattoo looking nice.
Not willing to let go of my defiance, even flat on my back, I keep my hand where it is. “Sorry to burst your bubble, but this tattoo isn’t exactly something Iwant. So keeping it pretty isn’t really a high priority.”
“Two things.”
“It’s always two things with you,” I mutter.
Dominic looks like he’s trying not to smile, but he fails. “Two things,” he repeats. “One, what’s worse? Having a tattoo you don’t want, or having a tattoo you don’t want that also looks bad?” I don’t give him an answer. “And two, I bet that dainty little finger of yours is sore. This will help.” He shakes the jar.
“My fingers aren’t dainty.” I’m grumbling. I know I’m grumbling because I hate that he has a point.
He lifts a dark brow. “Have you already forgotten about that time we put our hands palm to palm? Your fingers are extremely dainty compared to mine.”
He’s talking about our first plane ride.
Because I don’t want to discuss that, and because my finger does hurt, and because—fine, he’s right—I don’t want the tattoo to heal poorly and look even more dumb than it already does, I pull my hand out from under the blanket.
“I’m still mad,” I tell him.
“I know.”
“This wasn’t okay, Dom.”
His eyes narrow the slightest bit, but he doesn’t reply as he unscrews the lid and swipes his fingertips across the surface of the substance.
“I can do it.” My jaw clenches. I don’t want him taking care of me.
Dom sets the jar on the nightstand. “I’m doing it.”
“No,” I start, but his hand darts out and grips my wrist, dragging my hand closer to him.
“Dominic, knock it off!” I try to shove him away with my right hand, but he’s immovable.
“Just hold still, Shorty.”
I try to slap him away again, but he deflects with his elbow and swipes the ointment across my skin.
I brace myself, but his touch is so light it doesn’t hurt at all. It… feels good. Soothing.
Bastard.It would be better if this hurt. If I could be angry over him causing me pain.
Watching him carefully rub my finger is too much, so I close my eyes.
But that’s a mistake, too, because now there’s nothing to distract me from his touch. From the warmth of his hold on me.
My thighs press together under the blankets.
Up and down, his fingers slide over mine.
