Page 96 of Poetry On Ice

It turns out the bandage is at least three times bigger than it needed to be to cover the size of the design, and something tells me Robbie had a hand in that. The skin around the design is a little pink and inflamed, but it’s healing well. The placement is perfect, above his groin and to the left. Right where the muscle dips to form the V that leads to his cock.

I have things to say about what I’m looking at. Lots of things. I do. It’s just taking me a second to form the words because there, just above the waistband of his jeans, on one of my favorite parts of his body, is an image I know. An image I’ve seen before.

I recognize it immediately.

I should because I’m the original artist. It’s the image I drew in the steam on his vanity mirror months ago.

A tiny, wonky heart and a badly drawn ant.

A perfect addition to something that was already more perfect than perfect.

I wrap my arms around his waist and let myself melt into him, kissing and murmuring soft words into his skin. There’s something right about seeing the design on him. Eerily correct. Strangely familiar and good. I trace the outline of the heart and the ant with my finger and then lean down and kiss it.

His hand finds its way into my hair, blunt nails gently raking my scalp, sending a slow tremor of arousal through me.

“I did it, Ant,” he says. “I found something I’ll love forever.”