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“Good boy,” I tease, adding a wink to my words.
He shakes his head, a menacing smile on his face.
“Oh, don’t you dare,” he says.
“Don’t dare what?”
“Calling me that,” he says.
“Or else?” I probe. “Are you going to punish me?”
“Would you like that?”
He lifts his hands to cup my boobs, kneading and squeezing them, before he takes my nipples between two fingers and starts pinching them. It’s merely a warning at first, a slight nip, a flirtation with pain, but not real anguish. That changes, when I raise an eyebrow at him, challenging him to give me more. He closes his fingers around my hard nipples with such force that I’m momentarily blinded by pain, unable to stop myself from shrieking out.
“Beautiful,” he assesses, now softly caressing my tortured nubs with the tips of his fingers. “There’s more where that came from. A lot more, if you keep teasing me like that.”
“Good to know,” I say.
I get up from him and lie down in his arms, my fingers absentmindedly traveling across his muscular arm. His eyes follow, when I begin to trace the lines of the wheat tattoo on his arm.
“Why do you not want to tell me about this?” I ask, as I admire the delicate work. It’s an elegant tattoo, drawn in fine line and with a lot of detail. It’s obvious that a lot of thought went into it, and I don’t believe for a second that there’s no story behind it. He just wouldn’t share it.
“Why do you need to know?” he asks back.
“So, there is a story,” I retort. “I knew it.”
He sighs, and pulls me closer, his gaze latching onto the ceiling above us, when he begins to speak.
“It’s just something me and my friends did back in college,” he says. “There were four of us and we…”
He pauses, clearing his throat. “It’s silly, really.”
“Don’t be shy,” I tease him. “I promise I won’t laugh.”
He chuckles and shakes his head.
“It’s not that,” he argues. “It’s just rather personal, at least for me. I don’t know about the other guys.”
“Why is it more personal to you?” I want to know.
“Because I… well, okay.” He pauses again, clearing his throat even louder this time, before he finally speaks.
“The wheat ear is the symbol of Plutus, who is the god and personification of wealth in ancient Greek mythology. The four of us, Gabe, Logan, Aston and me, we’re all quite different characters, but that’s what we always had in common: A desire to become super rich, before we turned 30,” he begins. “We made a pact to achieve that goal, called ourselves the Plutus boys and all got the same tattoo, albeit in different places.”
“And did all of you become ‘super rich’?” I ask.
“Yes, in fact we did. Though some of us had to work harder for it than others.”
“I don’t think that’s silly,” I interject. “It sounds rather ambitious and well… like you guys had quite a special friendship.”
“We still do, even though we live in different places,” he goes on. “I’m the only one who moved to the West Coast after graduation. The three of them never left the East Coast.”
I furrow my brows. “And that’s why this tattoo means more to you?”
“No,” he shakes his head. “Quite frankly, it means more to me, because I was the one who had to work the hardest to achieve our goal. You see, Aston comes from a rich family, he was already wealthy when he started university. Same goes for Logan, kind of. He’s a bit of a mystery, that one, but I know he didn’t grow up poor, and he didn’t need a scholarship to attend university. Gabe had a scholarship, just like me. But he still had a better starting position than I did.”
“So, you grew up poor?” I ask, snuggling against his strong chest.
