Crazy Eights (Stacked Deck #8) - Emilia Finn Page 0,105
to the bed and climbs onto me.
This time, my body focuses on her strong thighs, her firm ass, the ends of her hair tickling my back when she leans forward, and her fingertips brushing over what hurt just minutes ago.
But that’s all shattered when she presses a boiling hot rag to my back.
“Agh! Fuck!”
“I’m sorry,” she giggle-cries. “I’m sorry. I’m trying to help you.”
“You figure adding burns to my skin will help?”
“I have to disinfect this mess,” she gives a watery chuckle. “If you could see what I see, you’d agree. Dammit, Jamie. Would you have gone to sleep like this and let them fester?”
“Nothing is festering,” I grunt out when she re-soaks her fabric. “They’re bruises, not cuts. They’re not gonna get infected.”
“That’s what you think,” she grumbles. “Those pool cues broke your skin, dummy. You’re bleeding here,” she presses down and draws another hiss from between my lips. “And here.”
“Stop it! Fuck.”
“Lay still and let me clean it up.”
She works gently, quietly, methodically.
“This ink is new,” she murmurs after a quiet minute or two. “You didn’t have any when you were eighteen.”
“Mm. Now I have lots. It was cheaper than therapy, and now I have pretty pictures to show for it.”
“Super unhealthy coping mechanism,” she snickers.
She works with slow strokes while electricity builds between us. She leans close enough that her hot breath soothes the spots she just cleaned. Her supporting arm rests beside my ribs, her wrist brushes against my skin. Warmth radiates from between her legs, and each time she moves and inadvertently grinds against me, my cock grows thicker, needier.
“You tattooed me onto your body,” she whispers. “I see myself here, and here, and here.” She presses a gentle finger to each spot. “So many times. And on your chest too.”
“Maybe that’s a different dancer. A different chick whose name starts with Q.”
“Maybe.” Her laugh comes out shaky and weak. “There are song lyrics here. Initials.”
“Her name starts with C, so that’s definitely not you.”
“It’s all so woven and random,” she whispers. “So many memories packed into a week.”
I turn my head so I rest on my cheek, and meet her eyes when she leans around me. “My tattoo artist, Ian, is kind of a family friend. He’s been inking my dad and uncles since they were our age. Basically, Ian is solid, and I knew he wouldn’t fuck anything up. So when I started all this, I told him to draw whatever he wanted.”
“Really?” Quinn’s eyes widen. “He did all this without your input? But that’s—”
“Bry, my cousin, he’s somewhat addicted to ink too, so every time I got more, he’d get more. We’d lay out on those tables side by side, and we’d chat. Sometimes about stupid shit, sometimes about the things we did as kids—”
“And sometimes about me?”
I close my eyes and give her the smallest nod. “Often, we talked about you. Or, well, my feelings about you. My need for closure, my need to not forget the time we had. He’d ask me to describe something, anything—”
“Like what?”
“Like…” I consider. “Well, back when this all began, he was just a dude fucking around with girls. He didn’t have anyone serious in his life, so he’d ask me what it was like to love. How does a guy know? How can he be sure? So I’d relate it back to you, and tell him how I knew. Hours and hours on the table would fly by, and all along—”
“Ian was listening.”
“Mm.” I smile and relax a little into the bed. “Exactly. He was listening, and I guess I was able to paint a picture in his mind. So that’s what he drew.”
“Is he in love now?” she asks with a smile in her voice. “Bryan?”
“Yeah. He found the right one. And he knew. He was sure far sooner than she was.”
“That’s really romantic,” Quinn sighs. “And because of you telling your cousin about me, your tattoo artist, a guy I’ve never met, was able to draw all this?” She sits up higher, and looks down at my back in wonder. “He’s really talented.”
“I prefer to think that my storytelling skills are awesome.”
She snorts and goes back to work. “That too. It was a team effort, for sure.”
“Do you have any ink?” I reach back, unable to stop the movement, and rest my fingertips against the side of her thigh. I need the contact. I need to feel her skin on mine. “Anything hidden?”