Page 65 of Ashes
I laughed and my nerves dissipated. “I think I already poured enough of my soul out to you last night.” Then I pushed the needle into his skin and got to work, stitching in careful strokes.
We stayed in a comfortable silence until I finished.
“All done,” I said after finishing off the last suture and protecting it by wrapping a sterilized bandage on top.
I was about to stand when my eyes traveled down his solid chest and zeroed in on the small tattoo on the left side of his ribs, a few inches above his now stitched-up wound.
It was a short sentence in cursive, but I couldn’t decipher what it meant since it was in a different language. With each breath he took, the tattoo moved as if it was floating on his skin, the words creating a wave.
It was almost impossible to tear my eyes away.
Without thinking, my hand reached for his waist and my fingers moved to the skin above his bandage, caressing it. Succumbing to the urge, my thumb traced over thelength of his tattoo. He inhaled sharply, but it didn’t stop me.
I didn’t know where I got the courage from, but I let my index finger trace the words, letter by letter.
“What does it say?” I whispered, my eyes still fixed on the tattoo.
“Jamais autant que moi,” he replied, the lilt of his French accent sending a shiver running down my spine.
“What does it mean?”
“It’s French. It means never as much as me. My mother used to say it to me when I told her I loved her.”
“You must miss her.”
“Every day.”
I traced it again, feeling the need to comfort him. My fingers moved of their own accord, feeling a pull to explore the rest of him. Goose bumps erupted across his skin under my touch.
Silence cloaked us, the room crackling with tension, suffocating the air around us so much that I could almost taste it.
I finally looked up at him and his head angled down, his eyes boring into mine. My eyes fell to his mouth as I moved farther up, but when my hands reached closer to his shoulders, his hand closed over mine, stopping my exploration.
“We should get some sleep,” he said, his voice hoarse.
“We should.” I pushed myself up using his knee andstepped between his legs with the intent to help him to his room, but neither of us moved.
His eyes slowly glided down my body, pausing over my chest before he brought them back to my face. A fire erupted over my skin when his eyes locked with mine. His hands were resting on his thighs and grazed the sides of my legs, goose bumps erupting all over my skin.
I wonder if that was on purpose.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered.
I stilled once his words registered and my heart ached at the compliment.
I felt his fingertips again and that’s when I remembered what I was wearing. My usual boy shorts and an oversized T-shirt with nothing underneath. Desire trickled down to my middle and squeezed, calling for more.
He’s injured. I can’t.
I cleared my throat. “All right, husband. Let’s get you to bed before you say anything else you’ll regret.”
His fingers brushed the back of my thighs. “I’d never regret calling my wife beautiful. I should hate you”—he shook his head—“but I just can’t seem to bring myself to.”
His gaze caressed my body once again and his hands grabbed the back of my thighs. Then they started trailing up until I blurted out, “Come to a wedding with me tomorrow.” Right as the tips of his fingers grazed the hem of my boy shorts.
“What?” he asked, confused by my sudden statement.
“My best friend Kenna is getting married tomorrow and I told her you’d be there.”
