Page 67 of Pink Ink

Maddox swipes a hand over his mouth, runs it through his hair, down his face, then curls his fingers into a fist before pressing it back against his lips.

He’s regretting the rule too.

I’m not a prude; I’m just a little inexperienced. Sure, I’ve had boyfriends I’ve done all sorts of stuff with. The classic lights off, no sound, lackluster sexscapades. The type where I’d go home to finish the job because I was making a grocery list while they got off.

Something tells me that there won’t be anything like it with Maddox.

Our harsh breaths mingle in the air between us. The chill from the buttery leather couch kisses my skin. It’s another sensation that sets sparksflying through me. He takes the pair of tights from me, leaving me in my dress and saturated panties. Then the seconds tick by.

He’s just staring. Concentrating on every detail of my body.

My chest tightens while Maddox inspects my ink. He traces the lines of my tattoos with his eyes. There’s a snake wrapped around a scythe and a crescent moon on one thigh, a giant chrysanthemum on the other, as well as a dagger going through a skull. On my shin, creeping up around the side of my knee, are pink peonies with thick black lines. More are hidden beneath my dress.

My stomach hollows when I follow his line of sight to the scars on my thighs. The mortification tastes like acid in my throat. How could I forget about those?

In my teenage years, I had issues accepting why Dad didn’t want me. Mom assured me it was because of his work, but I didn’t believe it. The only logical conclusion I could reach was that I wasn’t good enough.

Maybe if I got better grades, he’d stay. Maybe if I made better films, he’d visit more than once a year. Maybe if I could have been the perfect daughter, my family wouldn’t have been broken. Mom would have been happier with the love of her life.

It was my fault. That’s what I told myself.

Then I told myself that if it was bad enough—ifIwas bad enough—he’d come home. He’d heal me. None of that happened. So I became angry instead.

I did it for attention, yes. But I also did it because I wanted control over circumstances I couldn’t have control over.

For a second—one painful second, I worry Maddox will think I’m not enough either.

Anger flares in his eyes as he continues staring. I’ve never been ashamed of the scars or felt the need to explain. Yet Maddox is looking at me like he has a string of colorful words ready to lash out at me. I’m just about to put my legs down and cover myself with my dress so I can yell at him when he tears me apart.

“Those bloody legs,” he murmurs to himself, so quiet I almost don’t hear. “Perfect.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him to repeat himself. There’s no way I heard him correctly. I’m wearing my baggage on my skin, and he’s looking at me like I’m nothing short of beautiful.

“Panties. Off. Now.”

I watch him, second-guessing if he meant it. The doubt evaporates when my eyes fall to the sizable tent in his pants, and the pained expression on his face.I’mthe cause of his suffering. However bereft I feel, this is the gravest torture for him. It’s empowering.

My core flutters with need. This time, I’m slow without being told. My attention is fixed on him as I languidly glide the black material down my thighs. There’s a little black bow on it and lace trim that flares from my hips. Innocent yet sultry. The perfect juxtaposition to how I feel at this moment.

I loop it out from one leg to let the garment dangle from the other that’s balancing on the armrest of his chair, and I swear he stops breathing. With more confidence than I should have, I tuck my heel up closer to my hip, baring every vulnerable inch of me for him to see.

My heart stops beating as I wait for a reaction.

He stares.

And stares.

And stares.

Then finally, something.

Maddox’s lips part. Lost. Mesmerized. Frozen.

“Art,” I hear him whisper.

I’m sitting on my professor’s couch, naked from the waist down, with my legs balancing on his armchair, and he’s looking at me like he’s found religion.

He shakes his head in disbelief, going to the edge of the seat like he’s fighting a battle to stop himself from touching me. “So fucking beautiful,” he rasps, gripping the chair.