Page 67 of No Interest in Love

“Has to be the original,” I say with a smirk. I go to pull my shirt back down, but her finger drops onto my skin, tracing the ink, causing Wolverine to pucker up with sudden goose bumps.

“You have a great tattoo artist.”

“I’m pretty sure that was a compliment,” I tease. She rolls her eyes up to meet mine.

“Yes…for your tattoo artist.” She shoves my shirt down and bites at her bottom lip. She’s trying not to smile again. “The first tattoo I got was so horrible I had to get a cover-up.”

“You have a tattoo?”

She nods, tucking her hair behind her ear. Whatever animal that’s out there is still howling, and it sounds like it has friends now. We could probably leave, but neither one of us moves toward the door.

“It’s actually in the same place.” She kinks her neck to her side. “Well, almost. My left side, your right.”

“Ribs kill, right?”

“Did you cry in the chair?” she asks through a gorgeous smile.

“It was a very manly cry.” It wasn’t. “You?” I picture her losing it last night, and great, my slowly awakening heart feels sad for her…which makes me wish I had the guts to take her hand or something. But she shakes her head, and now I wish I’d remember that I am twenty-five years old and I shouldn’t be overthinking every single simple answer and movement I’m making with this woman who I’ve known for seven years.

“Of course not. I took it like a man.” She sits up proudly, and it’s the damned cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

“So you cursed a lot.”

Her body shakes in silent amusement. “A lot.” Her eyes break our connection. I breathe out, not realizing I was holding it in. “Especially the second time around.”

She grabs the bottom of her souvenir shirt from the back, and the fabric gets stuck and twisted—just like the air I’m breathing—on its way up.

“You’re taking off your shirt,” I mumble like an idiot.

“Well, you’ve already seen my ass.”

Her ass isn’t her boobs. I’m about to say that, but she keeps pulling the material and I tell my tongue to shut the hell up. Her pale skin is revealed centimeters at a time, and I want to reach out to help her, but I’m afraid one movement from me will frighten her away, so I stay stone still, watching and sweating and trying to get whatever has lodged itself in my esophagus out of there.

She ends up tugging the bottom of the back of her shirt over her head, like I used to do when I was a kid when my grandma rubbed my back, and then holds her arm out of the way so I can see her ink displayed all along her left ribs.

“Holy shit,” I say, ungluing from my frozen state, inching closer to get a better look. She’s got one of those 3-D tats. Three Wolverine claw marks run over her ribs, and inside of them are the X-Men characters—all in original costumes—showing off their powers in an attempt to escape. It’s badass. Not girly in the slightest, which honestly, I’d never expect from her anyway.

“And I thoughtIwas a fan,” I say, tilting my head a bit to get a better look at the Phoenix and her incredibly realistic 3-D breasts.

“Yeah…it looks way better now than it did before.” She sort of chuckles to herself, but it’s off. Shaky. Nervous. The air snaps like a stretched rubber band. And since I’m already not thinking straight, I reach out and touch the bottom edge of the tattoo, running my thumb over her chilled skin.

“How long did it take?”

“Three two-hour sessions.”

Ouch. “And no tears?”

“Well, I did bite a hole into the stuffed bear I was holding.”

The corner of my mouth picks up. “You had a teddy bear with you?”

“He suffered a very painful death.”

“His sacrifice is appreciated.” I shake my head at her ink. “Gotta say…I’m a bit jealous of it.”

Her lips press together, and a blush that starts from where my finger is touching her ribs runs up and over her pale skin. Adorable girl + adorable blush. I can’t take it anymore.

She pulls the shirt from her head, and I catch it before it falls back over her body. The air snaps again, and I hold my breath, noticingsweet hell, she’s holding hers too.

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