Too soon, he breaks away with a pained groan that mirrors my own frustration. “We can continue this later.”
Later? Is he fucking kidding me right now? How am I supposed to wait for later?
But he’s already walking away, disappearing behind a door I assume is the bathroom. Sure enough, a trickle of water comes from inside, and when he emerges again, he’s patting his hands dry with a clean white towel.
He tosses the towel on a chair and strides back over. At the bedside table, he turns to the tray and tugs on the disposable gloves. He doesn’t bother asking where I want the tattoo—apparently, that decision has already been made.
My heart skitters nervously as he takes the antiseptic wipes and peels a few out. He places them within easy reach before finally turning back to me.
My left hand is lifted, and the glare of the overhead chandelier catches on my rings. He pauses, clearly mesmerized, then leans down to press a loud kiss right over them. He definitely loves seeing his mark of possession on me. And if I’m being honest, so do I.
Then he turns my hand over, exposing my wrist, and I gulp audibly. Fuck—of all the spots for him to choose. This is going to hurt like hell, isn’t it? But then to my surprise, he moveslower, gently dragging the wipe across the inside of my forearm, just below my elbow.
Relief floods me. Still sensitive, but better than the wrist.
He wipes the area two more times, then picks up the razor and gently passes it across my skin, shaving off the fine hair. When he goes over the newly sensitized area with another wipe, I jolt.
“You good?” he asks, glancing up.
“The wipe just felt colder than before,” I explain, and he nods understandingly.
“I’m going to be careful. I don’t like seeing you hurt.”
He applies the stencil solution to my arm, then lifts the transfer paper, and I see the design for the first time. My breath catches.
He put so much thought into this.
The design is a feminine version of his and the guys’ identical tattoos, but it’s so much more than that. The azaleas are vibrant, their green stem seamlessly intertwining with the black stem of a blooming iris positioned right beneath. To the right of the irises, the lily of the valley takes over with its drooping bell-shaped buds that gradually morph into elegant tulips.
But the arrangement is slightly different from theirs. In my version, the other flowers form a circle around the azaleas, like a protective shield. And right above the azaleas, within that protective ring, sits a small crown.
My heart melts as I understand the significance.
“Rafael,” I whisper, my voice thick, touched in a way I can’t explain.
“Do you like it?”
I nod frantically, my throat closing up with overwhelming feeling. “Iloveit.” I couldn’t have come up with a more beautiful design that sums up our situation so perfectly.
Even when I was across enemy lines, Rafael protected me.And this evening, when I was paralyzed by fear and doubt before walking up to Rafael, the guys surrounded me with support and protection that filled me with warmth.
Family. They’re family. And they’ve been family. Through thick and thin.
I’m the only one of us who doesn’t have a scar from the showdown with Rafael’s father fifteen years ago. Because they protected me. They’re always protecting me, even when I don’t deserve it.
Tears slide down my face, and I let them flow freely, unashamed to show my emotions. Rafael just smiles softly and picks up the tattoo machine.
Here we go.
For the next couple of minutes, the only sound is the soft whirring of the tattoo machine as Rafael works on my skin. And maybe it’s because it’s Rafael wielding the needle, maybe it’s his calming presence, the significance of this moment, the way he touches me like I’m something sacred, or some combination of them all, but I feel no pain. None at all. Only the strange, buzzing pleasure of being marked by the man I love.
My heart is brimming with emotions, pounding steadily for him as I watch his bent head, the intense concentration on his handsome face. The soft buzz of the machine moving across my skin is surprisingly hypnotic, and to my shock, it’s actually getting me worked up.
By the time he draws the last line, my panties are soaked through, and I’m trying not to squirm.
When he finishes shading and coloring the tattoo to absolute perfection, he gently wipes the area clean. A thin layer of ointment follows, soothing my skin before he covers the fresh ink with a breathable bandage.
I can’t wait for everyone to see it. I can’t wait to proudly show it off.
