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Nineteen years old
I wake up before Isla does. She’s curled into me, her skin soft and warm, the familiar scent of peaches and vanilla flooding my veins with heat. I’ve never shared a bed with a girl before, and in this moment, I’m extra grateful for that. I have no doubt nothing could ever feel this good.
Of all the incredible moments I’ve dreamed we would share, turns out, the best part of being with her is waking up with her body pressed to mine. I’m exactly where I’ve always meant to be—by her side. And damn, if that doesn’t feel like winning.
I tighten my hold on her and close my eyes, welcoming the images from last night that flood my mind, replaying her moans and the sounds of my name spilling from her lips. My skin simmers with need. I’ve got it so bad.
She stirs in my arms and then slowly turns. One eye cracked open, she peers at me. Then, a smile spreads over my lips.
“Hey, sleepyhead.”
“Hi,” she whispers, nuzzling into the crook of my neck. “How long have you been awake?”
“A few minutes.” I bury my nose in her hair, inhaling. “How do you feel?”
She chuckles softly. “A bit sore.”
Dread sweeps through me, and I suck in a breath. Hurting her is the last thing I ever want to do.
She rears back, locking eyes with me. “That’s not a complaint. Last night was magical. Don’t doubt that for a second. You were amazing.”
“You were amazing,” I tell her. “I didn’t know I could experience so many emotions at once.”
A smile tugs at her mouth, and I can’t help myself. I capture her lips with mine, kissing her slowly. She trails her fingers over my abs, dipping them into the waistband of my boxer briefs.
Grunting, I grip her waist and roll on my back, hauling her on top of me.
She sits up, her palms splayed over my chest.
“Like what you see?” I ask teasingly.
“How can I not?” She arches a brow. As she exhales, her eyes drift lower to my neck, down my chest. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“We used to talk about everything, and you never mentioned wanting to be covered in tattoos.”
Heat pricks at the back of my neck. Not because I’m embarrassed of them or ashamed, but because when I tell her why, I worry it’ll be too much for her.
“You have tattoos on your arms, your neck, your chest, your back, and even your thighs…” She tilts her head, her hair spilling over her shoulder. “What made you do it?”
I lick my lips, my heart thudding heavily. “You.”
She blinks, focus flying back to my face. “Erm, it’s either really sweet or really concerning. I’m not sure.”
“You used to talk about your dad’s tattoos all the time, like they were the coolest thing in the world.” I brush a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve always liked them too. At first because of him, because I looked up to him, but then I started liking them because of how much you liked them.”
“Careful, Pretty Boy.” She walks her fingers over my pec. “You’re setting my standards too high. Like, sky-level high, unreachable high.”
“Maybe unreachable to everyone else, but not me.” I cup her cheek. “You deserve only the best and to be treated right.”
“Smooth.”
She studies my arm, and her lips part. “Is it…?”
I turn my arm a little so she can get a better look.
She presses her fingertips to my tattoo, tracing the ink. It’s a manga panel, one of a few I have scattered all over my body, but it’s my favorite—a Rengoku tattoo. The whole scene from the end of Mugen Train Arc left me speechless. Hell, it made me fucking cry.
