"Did that hurt more than a normal one?" he asks, the surprise evident in his voice.
I shake my head. "Not really, it mostly hurt because it took longer. That would've taken five minutes with a machine, but by hand it took almost twenty." I pause, anticipating his next question. "And yes, I made sure they used a new stick. I actually watched them whittle it down. I don't know why people think I'm stupid enough to let them recycle a bloody tattoo stick and risk getting an infection."
He chuckles, and we revel in the silence for a few moments. But I’ve always been secretly enamored with the ink on his skin and can’t help asking about his. He’s got one stupid image on the inside of his bicep that I know he got when he turned eighteen, but the tattoos stretching over his shoulder and upper back are incredibly intricate and beautiful. I’ve gotten caught up staring at them at the gym more than once.
“Do you want to get any more?” I finally ask.
“Probably,” he shrugs. “I’m sure I’ll get the itch again. I’ve always wanted to get a full sleeve but I don’t want to have to wear long sleeved shirts if I end up working in a professional job after I retire. I might just stretch the one on my upper back to cover more of my back.”
I nod in understanding. Tattoos are becoming more and more accepted in the workplace but it’s still well-known that people without visible ink have a better shot at getting hired than those with it. It’s impressive that Tristan not only recognizes that, but sees its place in his future and plans for it.
I feel another surge of reverence for him.
“It’s probably better that way anyway,” I murmur, going back to tracing the ridges of his abs. “You would be way too hot with a full sleeve. Women would spontaneously combust around you.”
A laugh rumbles through his chest, and a warmth spreads through mine at the sound. I smile into his skin. I’ve spent so much time insulting him that I never realized how much I would love the sound of his joy.
"You’re one to talk. What's the tattoo on your ribs?" he asks me.
I cringe. "A stupid young one," I respond. "I got it on my eighteenth birthday. I was super into Buddhism and decided I really needed the saying of a Buddhist tea ceremony permanently etched on me in Japanese. I can confirm it means what it's supposed to, but it's still a silly thing to get inked onto your skin."
He laughs, probably understanding the pain of a stupid tattoo. "What does it say?"
I sigh. "It means 'each moment, only once.' Buddhists believe every tea ceremony should be treated like it's the last time you'll ever see that person." I frown as something occurs to me for the first time. "Basically, it means YOLO."
A bark of surprised laughter bursts from him. I grin as I look up.
He holds my gaze as he starts to brush his fingers along my shoulder. "Can I see it?" he asks me.
I swallow nervously, suddenly aware of the intimacy of this moment. But I nod.
He gives me space to turn over onto my other side. I pull a shaky breath into my lungs as I settle into the pillow, now facing away from him. I tug the blanket down to my hips and tuck my top hand under the pillow, exposing my ribs and side boob to his heated gaze.
Several seconds go by before he leans forward to trace the Japanese kanji characters running the length of my torso. I shiver at the feel of his touch and I'm sure he notices the goosebumps that appear. I marvel at how gently his fingers brush across my skin.
When he reaches the bottom of the characters, he starts the path back up again.
"That… feels so nice," I sigh, basking in the heavenly sensation. "That's better than a massage. And a lullaby."
Sure enough, on his third path down the ink, my eyelids flutter closed. A soft moan escapes my lips at the amount of sheer contentment that I feel in this moment.
The next time he reaches the top of the tattoo, I vaguely register the feeling of his lips pressing against my shoulder before his fingers begin again. And although I drift to sleep with his skin brushing against me, it's the feel of his soft lips that I dream of.
* * *
When I wake, Tristan's room is pitch black and my bladder is about to burst.
I stifle my groan as I untangle myself first from the arm draped over my waist, then from the multiple sheets and blankets that Tristan pulled around us at some point. I slide off the bed and pad as quickly and as quietly as I can to the bathroom next door.
Sighing at the relief that comes from something as simple as peeing, I clean myself up and wash my hands. I smile when I feel the slight ache from last night.
I briefly debate sleeping the rest of the night in Jax's room, but quickly decide that Tristan was right about his bed—it really is horrible. I'll get much better sleep in Tristan's bed.
Even my subconscious rolls its eyes at my ridiculous lie.
I quietly slip into Tristan's room and try to get comfortable under the sheets without disturbing the bed too much. Eventually I settle on my side, facing away from the still-gloriously-naked man behind me.
Just as I'm drifting off to sleep, a heavy arm wraps around my waist and pulls me against a hard chest. I try not to yelp when I feel a very stiff erection press against my ass.