GUN IN MY HAND

CHAPTER 28: INKS

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'Slow, slow hands

Like sweat drippin' down our dirty laundry

No, no chance

That I'm leavin' here without you on me

I, I know

Yeah, I already know that there ain't no stoppin'

Your plans and those

Slow hands'

"Can I see it?" It may not have been the most important, yet with all the sensations he'd already created, the curiosity only sprang fiercer.

As soon as he stepped away, I rushed down my desk, even faster than what my wobbly legs could handle, but luckily, he was there to hold my hand, not without a sly chuckle, of course, and when I stopped in front of the mirror, I didn't mind the raspy sound rumbling louder against my back.

"A shooting star?!" I jumped once and then, leaned closer to the reflection to take in the ink, while, inside, the leaps continued with all the possibilities.

It was the same design as on my fidget toy, but bigger and more detailed, the navy paint stretching from the point where my heart was hammering in my throat to the base of my neck, near my collar bone, and for an anodyne painting that wasn't mean to last, each stroke was incredibly precise and meticulous.

I wished I could keep it forever, and the thought, although impossible, still crossed my mind like a meteor.

"Of course, for my shooting star." I wasn't sure what he was talking about as my gaze flicked to his in the mirror, and the devious twinkle there appeared magical, but my answer held an infinity of possible meanings.

"Thank you, my evil genie."

I kept my eyes on the reflection, unable to look away, and it became more hypnotizing when his fingers sauntered around the fresh paint. Intriguing branches were dancing around the streaks of blue like completing each other.

"Can I tattoo you too?" I turned to him with a new possibility in mind.

"Yes, sure, but I gotta warn you... There's not a lot of blank places left on my body." He spread his arms wide, showing most parts of his body covered in inks, including his dimple, and I carefully avoided his bad intention.

My mind, my gaze, and then, my fingers were already set somewhere else as I grabbed his hand, though I was surprised he didn't add any wily comment.

He was too focused, staring between my face – and my freckles, of course – and his left hand that I was tugging on. It was the hand already inked, contrary to his right hand, and other parts of his body he'd been implying, and I knew last night's conversation wasn't only fresh in my memory.

Even our touches reminded it: my fingers, determined and guided by an instinct as I grabbed his thin paintbrush and dipped it in the green can, and his strong body letting me move him with no resistance when I took my seat on the desk again and he sat on my chair.