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Which leaves one excellent option: Patrick Murphy.

The very cute tattoo artist who a) put the hearts and thorns on my ribs, b) left his card with a casual "call me anytime" and c) put his hands on my skin in a way that felt both safe and sexy as sin.

Maybe it's the rush of neurotransmitters from my new tattoo. It's been eight hours and I'm still buzzing. But, for once, I don't want to question my desires.

Patrick has already seen me topless. He knows I'm flat, and he wants to sleep with me anyway. I might as well call.

I channel my roommate's confidence, find my cell, and get straight to the point.

Imogen: Hey, Patrick. This is Imogen. The rib tattoo.

He answers quickly.

Patrick: The gorgeous woman who insisted she didn't need someone to hold her hand?

Imogen: I didn't.

Patrick: I know. How's the piece holding up?

Imogen: Beautiful. Do you want to see?

Patrick: Sure.

Imogen: Here.

No. This is too coy. Men don't understand hints. I need to be more explicit.

Imogen: I need a little help with after-care. In person.

Patrick: Oh?

Imogen: If you're free.

Patrick: Now?

Imogen: Now.

Patrick: You're direct.

Imogen: Why mince words?

Patrick: It's easier, for some people.

Imogen: For you?

Patrick: Not exactly. You said you go to UCLA, right?

Imogen: I live in Brentwood.

I send the cross-streets.

Patrick: Twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes to prepare for my first tryst in over a year.

No problem.

ChapterThree


Tags: Crystal Kaswell Romance