Page 64 of Omega Artist
Standing in front of her, I kiss her forehead. “We sure did. Anything else in mind?” I pause, then add, “As eager as I am for round two, I need some time to recover after that.” That makes her giggle. It’s a girly laugh that contradicts both the tone of her voice and the raw pleasure that we gave one another. My gaze is drawn to her chest that I can’t help but ogle, and I smile sheepishly when she catches me.
“I have something in mind.” She leans back and settles in the tattoo chair. My filthy mind assumes that she wants more, despite my warning, but the timid expression on her face contradicts that. “Come here.” She pats the seat. Before I know it, the side of my butt is awkwardly propped on the chair. I caress her cheek with my thumb, and her eyes flutter shut under my touch. The bashful smile transforms into a serene one. I wonder what’s on her mind. She sighs and reaches for my hand. With her eyes still closed, she guides my hand over her shirt and across her upper body. My fingers tremble when she stops them over her hardening nipples. This is sweet torture. I’d love to motorboat her tits. I’d love to lick and suck her nipples. I’d love to slide my dick between her breasts. I do none of these things and behave.
Her eyes pop open. Her gaze is intense as she laces her fingers with mine and lowers them until they settle on her lower stomach. Under her shirt. On her bare skin. Her breath catches at the same time mine does.
“I respect your hard limit, Alie. Don’t feel like you have to.”
“I know,” she hesitates. “But you need to know,” she stutters, flashing a tentative smile as my fingers slide up to her chest. Inch by inch. I can feel her scars, like tiny strands of barbwire, even if I don’t see them. I’ve met enough survivors to piece together her story. A story that she recounts with difficulty. Her voice is pained. Her tone is brave. Her face is glowing. Moments later, her tee-shirt has vanished. Her eyes are filled with tears that refuse to spill over.
She nods, allowing my mouth to attend to her forbidden area. I get acquainted with her beautiful and broken body. Caressing. Kissing. Nipping.
“Thank you for trusting me.” My voice is low as my lips graze her earlobe while I continue to tenderly caress her breast. “Your scars are beautiful. You are beautiful, Aliénor.”
“Make them go away, Tig. Make them go away.” Her plea shatters my heart into a million pieces. Her hand covers mine, and they rest in the valley between her breasts, hiding most of her scars. “Please.” She squeezes my hand, and I don’t miss the way her heart speeds up.
“You’re upset. I can’t do anything like that with the state you’re in. I wouldn’t want you to regret it.”
“I won’t.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Scars to Your Beautiful
Aliénor
“You’ve changed, you know.”
I frown, unsure of what Greer is insinuating. “People don’t change, Greer.” My attention returns to the navy-blue sundress that I neatly fold and place in my small Vuitton bag. This long dress is perfect. Its neckline is revealing, but it’s a classic. What I love the most about it, though, is the fact that the front opens with a zillion buttons, and I can’t wait to watch Tig lose his patience over it!
“Oh, come on! You know what I mean.” My packed vanity case in hand, she saunters back from the bathroom. “You’re somehow more… confident, if that’s even possible.” Her hand splays over her heart. “I don’t know...” she trails off. “You hold your back straighter, speak with a calmer voice, and breathe with peaceful purpose.”
“Are you shitting me?” I stop packing and stare at her. She takes a couple of steps to meet me half-way between the bathroom door and where I stand with my weekender open on a chair in front of me. I grab my black cashmere sweater from my luggage and throw it at her. I miss my target, and it miserably falls to the floor.
She leans down, stretching to snatch it. “I’m dead serious. What did I miss?”
Her innocent words floor me and a cold sweat runs down my spine. There are so many issues that I’ve ignored lately. As the months passed, I realized that I was proud of defeating cancer but deeply ashamed of my scars. I mulled over trusting Tig and allowing him to help me. Eventually, I let my guard down, decided to be honest, and jumped on the bandwagon. He resisted until I revealed my story. Raw. Genuine. Unapologetic.
“Maybe being away from my usual Parisian pressures paid off.” My way to bypass the fact that my upper body is now embellished with a beautiful design that boosts my confidence.
Sensing that this conversation is over, she concludes in a low voice, “Never mind. Forget I said anything.” That, I can do.
With a quizzical gaze, she unzips the square bag and exposes what’s inside for my approval. “Mmm… Did I forget something?” One of her eyebrows arches as I check the contents. Her business-like tone is out of place, yet funny.
Greer has been so focused on work recently that I haven’t seen much of her. She was out of town for some VIP event. We’ve texted, but it’s not the same. To make up for lost time, she stayed with me last night and slept on the suite’s sofa bed. I’m a loner by nature, but I truly enjoy having her around.
“Condoms? Lube? Blindfold?” I peer at her. Our mischievous glances turn playful when I stick out my tongue and move it indecently.
Her hand smacks her forehead and she lets out a peal of devilish laughter. “Damn, how could I forget your vital accessories?” She sprints back to the bathroom and triumphantly parades back with items that will ensure the success of my four-day-weekend. It’ll be the longest I’ve been around Tig at one time and a first with his closest friends. To say that I’m anxious would be the understatement of the year, no matter how casual I try to play what’s happening between us.
“You should be proud that I’m responsible and prepared.”
“Right, as far as condoms are concerned. No need to share any details regarding the lube and blindfold, thank you very much!”
“You must be such a snooze in bed,” I goad her in an even voice, my eyes trained on the inside of my bag.
She flips me the bird as I look up. “For your information, I rarely make it to bed, but that’s TMI.”
“Since when is there TMI between us?”
