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Mighty snake. I swallow a laugh laced with excitement. “Wait. Did you just compare my boobs to muffins?”
“They’re sweet.” He smirks. “Don’t pout, Sweet Muffins. I love your tits. They’re perfect.”
“Sweet Muffins?” I glare at him, not sure I like the pet name, but then he starts pulling his T-shirt off, and I forget what I was going to say.
Damn…
Hot. The guy’s hot, not pretty. Hot and hard and muscular and inked, and oh my fucking God…
“You, uh.” I gesture at the upper torso of a Greek god, only with two huge, bad-ass tattoos covering parts of it—a snake and a skull. His abs ripple as he throws the T-shirt down on the bed. “Are, uh.”
There are no words.
“Are what?” He rubs a hand over his ribs, and I notice splotches of color there and across his chest—yellowish and green, some dark purple.
Bruises, and now I remember why. The car accident.
No idea why, but my throat goes tight, just like it did when I first saw them. Thinking he was in any sort of danger, any sort of pain, hits me straight to the heart.
Because we’re friends. Right? That’s the only explanation.
I clear my throat to hide the inexplicable emotion welling inside of me. “You’re only half-naked. You still have pants on. And socks. And underwear. And ink.”
One dark brow goes up. “You want me to take off my ink?”
A snicker escapes me. “Good God, no.”
His ink is hot—but it’s like secrets wrapped over his golden skin. I want to know what they’re hiding.
I lean in to stare at the snake trying to bite his right nipple and the skull on his left pec and get distracted. The reason I’m poking his pec with my finger is just to make sure it’s a real tattoo there and not some fake crap.
That’s right. I swear.
“What do they mean to you?” I whisper.
He draws a sharp breath. “The snake is the mark of Damage Control. Zane gave it to me when he picked me up from the street and made me his apprentice.”
“You were on the street? Why?”
He shrugs, sending more luscious muscles shifting and rippling. “My old man hates me. He kicked me out. That’s what the other tat is for.”
Kicked him out.
God…
And there it is. That gleam of darkness. That crack in his pretty boy façade that draws me like poisonous honey. Draws me in and makes my heart ache.
He is one of the Damage Control boys. Damage is their middle name. I should have guessed.
“What about that one?” I point at the smaller tattoo on the inside of his arm, the one he’s rubbing now, absently, like always, the one I glimpsed many times in the past but never thought to ask about.
Never thought it had a meaning. A winged being. An angel.
He blinks down at it, his hand stilling its movement, his face paling. Then a flush seeps into his cheekbones, and he shoots me a sharp, cocky grin as he straightens and reaches for his zipper.
Which is kind of distracting. Okay, a lot distracting. Because hey, the bulge at his crotch is pretty impressive. Almost as impressive as his taut, muscular chest.
And far more intriguing.
