Page 126 of Composed
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say. “Unlike someone who was snoring before we even reached the end of the second film.”
A flush crawls over her cheeks and she ducks her head. “I don’t snore.”
“Baby, you snore like a tractor.”
Her breath hitches.
My heart thunders.
I didn’t mean to slip and call her that. Not going to take it back though.
Her lashes flick up, her tongue darting over her lip stud as she slinks past me. She drops onto the opposite end of the couch, legs laying across the cushions, head rolling on the arm. “You really want to hear my new song?”
“You said it was mine, right?”
“It might not be any good.”
I chuckle, lifting her legs and draping her feet in my lap. “You still don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?”
“That everything you touch turns to gold.”
Her gaze shoots up, chest lifting slowly, teeth sinking into her lip. She doesn’t say anything, just watches me.
I roll my fingertips over her ankle, tracing the butterfly inked there.
“When did you get so heavily tattooed?” I ask her.
Her lashes flutter. “I got most of them before I turned twenty-five. Turns out the addiction you were always banging on about is very real.”
I grin, easing her pyjamas up her calf.
I used to know every inch of Hendrix, every freckle, every mole. Now she’s a canvas of colourful unknowns.
“Do you have any of your old skin left?”
“Some,” she says, sliding deeper into the couch. “What about you? Any skin still untouched?”
“Some.”
“Good to know.” A soft smile lifts her mouth. “What’s your favourite tattoo?”
I arch a brow. “Do you really need to ask?”
Amuscle tics in her jaw as her gaze drifts to my wrist. “A favourite that I don’t know about, then?”
“Hmm.” I lift my shirt with my free hand and reveal the Reckless Abandonwrapped vintage microphone on my ribs. She follows the intricate line work, her eyes licking along my skin. Every inch of me heats under her stare.
“We all have one,” I tell her. “Saint’s is a Fender, Ax has a Sterling, and Carter has crossed sticks.”
She shuffles upwards and reaches out to me. “Can I?”
I nod, holding my breath.
She barely touches me, but I feel everything as a sharp, black nail skates over the ink.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers.
