Page 19 of Scornful

There's another pause, and then her hands are on me.

Fuck.

Her touch is firm but gentle, warm palms sliding across my oil-slicked skin like she’s been doing this her entire life.

She starts at my shoulders, working her thumbs into knots I didn't even know I had, drawing a barely suppressed groan from me.

"Too much?" she asks, her voice close to my ear.

"No," I manage. "It's... good."

"Your muscles are like concrete," she says, working her way down to my shoulder blades. "How long have you been this tense?"

Since I saw you in that parking lot, since I can't stop thinking about you.

"A while," I say instead.

She makes a mumbling sound and continues working, her skilled fingers finding every point of tension in my upper back and methodically dismantling it.

Despite my initial apprehension, I find myself relaxing under her touch, my breathing deepening as some of the pain begins to recede.

"This scar," she says, her fingers tracing a long line that runs from my right shoulder blade to the middle of my back. "This was deep."

"Knife," I say simply. "Territory war about ten years ago."

Her hands pause for just a moment before continuing. "And this one?" She touches a circular scar just above my left kidney.

"Bullet. Guy had bad aim."

"You've been shot?" There's no missing the concern in her voice now, professional distance slipping just a bit.

"Occupational hazard," I say, trying to keep it light.

Her fingers move to another scar, this one smaller but jagged, near my right shoulder. "And this?"

"Bar fight. Broken bottle. Guy didn't like that I was talking to his girl."

"Were you?" There's something different in her tone now, something almost... playful?

"Nah," I say, a smile tugging at my lips though she can't see it. "She was talking to me. There's a difference."

That earns me a small laugh, the sound sending a warmth through me.

Her hands move lower, working the muscles along my spine, and I have to bite back another groan.

Her touch is doing things to me—things that go beyond the therapeutic benefits of massage.

"This tattoo is incredible," she says, her fingers brushing lightly over the skull design that covers much of my right side. "The detailed work is amazing."

I try to focus on the conversation and not the electricity her touch is generating. "Took almost thirty hours, spread over a couple months."

"It represents death, obviously," she says, tracing the outline of the skull. "But the flowers intertwined with it... that's about rebirth, isn't it? Life and death together."

Something shifts in my chest at her understanding.

Most people just see the skull and think it's about being a badass, or loving death. They miss the duality.

"Yeah," I say, my voice rough. "Exactly that."

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