Settle for him? How is there not a row of drooling girls at the window? I hardly think anyone would be settling for him.

He’s talking about the tattoo. I smile and walk toward him.

“So, what do you have in mind?” He sits on the stool and watches me as I approach. His legs are wide and his hands rest on his thighs. Through his tight shirt, I can make out the outline of his chest, and I realize I should probably be very intimidated by him. He’s massive, loud, and a little scary looking.

But those eyes...

“Morning glories,” I blurt out, shaking off the feeling of vulnerability.

I notice the way he freezes for a split second. I’ve surprised him, but he doesn’t answer my request.

“Is that something you can do...or would you have to sketch it out first?”

“You mean something like this?” He holds out his arm, and there on his forearm is a bouquet of blue flowers with delicate petals, a couple of them almost falling off the stem. My breath hitches as I sit on the chair and touch his arm.

“Yes, exactly,” I whisper. “Those are perfect.”

The rest of his arm is covered with other drawings, gears, skulls, and a pair of dice—things you’d expect on a man like him, but the morning glories stick out. They are the only thing in color, bright blue and green.

He clears his throat, and I realize I still have my hand on his arm, letting my fingers glide down the stems of the flowers.

Jesus.

My hands snap away and land in my own lap. Way to be a weirdo, Savannah.

I wait for him to explain why those specific flowers or ask me what the meaning is for me. Instead, his lips lift in a smirk as he motions to the back of the chair. “Sit back.”

Swallowing my nerves, I do as he says, trying to push down the hem of my dress that suddenly feels too short as it rides up my thighs. Something about this situation, being alone in this place with this man feels too intimate.

Or just the right amount of intimate.

“Where do you want it?”

I have to keep my eyes on his face or else they threaten to drift over his shoulders, chest, and that obvious bulge in his jeans.

Where do I want it? I repeat in my mind, and I know I have to answer quickly or else the obvious innuendo of that phrase will fill the already-awkward space between us.

At this point, being in the presence of a man, for the first time in so long—a whispering reminder of the life I used to live, has my body shouting at me to remember what it was like. To feel a man’s touch, his hands on my skin, around my body. Goosebumps erupt along the flesh of my exposed thighs.

“Here,” I choke, my voice breaking. I point to the inside of my upper thigh, just above my knee. It’s a strange place for a tattoo, for sure, but there’s meaning there.