Page 50 of You Rock My World
I take her hand in mine, my thumb caressing her knuckles. “Josie, it was great to meet everyone. Honestly, I didn’t realize how much I missed being part of a family until I was with yours.” I pause, unsure if I should go on. But that’s why we’re here. To learn these things about each other. The good. The ugly. So I give her everything. “The past two years, I’ve been pretty lonely.”
Her expression softens, and she squeezes my hand. “I’m sorry, Dorian.”
The timer on my phone sounds, reminding me it’s time to take the main course out of the oven. Reluctantly, I stand up, but not before leaning in close to Josie. With a gentle tap on her nose, I whisper, “I’m not lonely anymore.”
As I walk towards the kitchen, I can sense her gaze on me. Knowing she’s here, in my space, feels dangerously close to the thing I didn’t think I’d have again… a home. I turn my head over my shoulder and find her eyes glued to my—ass.
So much for my soppy nonsense. Trust her to knock me off balance with a look and somehow make me enjoy it.
I swivel my hips in an exaggerated shimmy. “You like the view, Monroe? Should I give you the full show?”
“Woo-hoo,” she cat-calls. “I’ll be waiting with my one-dollar bills.”
I spin around dramatically. “One dollar? I’m worth at least fives.”
“I’d tip more, but I hear you’re already rolling in platinum records.”
I’m smiling like an idiot the entire time I’m in the kitchen.
When I take out the potato-crusted halibut, the aroma of herbs and garlic follows me outside. I set the dish on the table and scoop a generous portion for Josie.
She laughs as I hand her the plate. “Dorian, I’m notthatstarved!” Despite her protest, she devours the first few bites like a castaway on a desert island.
“Good, huh?”
“Terrible,” Josie says around a mouthful. “The worst thing I’ve ever eaten. You should fire your chef. And I should take any leftovers off of you, for your well-being.”
I chuckle. “I’ll pass along your harsh critique.”
As we eat and talk about all and nothing, Josie’s gaze keeps drifting to the tattoos on my arms.
It happens again, and again, each glance lingering longer. Is she fascinated? Does she find the ink excessive? Or maybe… she’s turned on?
“You really have a thing for my tattoos, don’t you?”
“I’m obsessed,” she deadpans, and I’ve no idea if she’s joking. “I want to know the story behind each one.”
Not joking, then.
And I want to share them with her. Each tattoo is a piece of me, a visible timeline of who I am and what I’ve been through. “We might not get through them all tonight, but we can start. Which one do you want to know about first?”
“What does the line of text on your ribs say? I’ve wanted to read it since the photoshoot.”
Ah, she always goes straight for the throat, catching me at my most vulnerable.
I lean back and lift my T-shirt, revealing the inscription. Josie’s eyes snag on it, drinking me in more ravenously than when she was staring at the food.
“It’s a lyric from the song I wrote about my mom,” I explain softly. “‘You let me borrow your wings, so I could fly.’”
Josie’s fingertips trace the words. The unexpected contact sets my skin on fire, and it takes every ounce of my self-control not to start purring like an overeager tomcat.
“That line is beautiful,” she whispers, slowly retreating her hand.
I let my shirt fall back down, the fabric a poor substitute for her electric touch. “Which one’s next?”
Josie shifts her chair to face me and reaches for my wrists. And I mirror her, angling my chair so the table is no longer between us. Her hand trails, featherlight, up my arms, exploring with both her eyes and fingertips. I struggle to keep still, caught between wanting the not-enough touch to end and wishing it could last forever.
Her fingers graze over my left forearm, following the dark, intricate linework that coils over my skin. As she moves higher, the design changes. The sharp geometry softens into curling vines, delicate leaves, and large, blooming roses.
