Rock with Me (With Me in Seattle, #4)(35)

“Will you sign it?” She’s bouncing again, like a fan, and it makes me still for just a moment.

I don’t need a crazy fan-girl as my girlfriend.

And then I remember; this is Sam. She’s no one’s fan-girl.

“Why?” I ask again.

“In case I want to sell it on eBay.” She bats her lashes at me and my stomach loosens. I dig around in my computer bag and pull out a black marker.

“Where do you want me to sign it, smart ass?”

“Duh.” She rolls her eyes. She’s so getting spanked. “On my boob!”

“On your boob!” I pinch the bridge of my nose and laugh.

“Like you’ve never signed boobs before,” she smirks.

“Oh, I’ve signed my share.”

“I figured. So mine shouldn’t shock you.”

“I love your boobs.” I lean down and kiss her cheek. She has great tits.

“So sign them.” She steps back and thrusts her breast toward me and my cock immediately strains against my jeans.

I slowly sign her shirt, right over her breast, my eyes on hers. She bites that plump bottom lip of hers and sucks in a breath, her eyes dilate.

God, she’ll be the death of me.

“All done,” I whisper.

“Thanks,” she whispers back, and then blinks, pulling herself out of the sexy trance. She pulls the shirt over her head, folds it carefully and places it back in the bag and walks over to her clothes.

“Stop,” I order her.

She glances at me with surprise. “What?”

“Come here.”

She frowns and stands in front of me again.

“I’m not done.”

“You signed the shirt.”

“Yeah,” my eyes follow her curves, her lines, and her nipples pucker under my gaze. “But I’d like to play.”

“With the Sharpie?”

I shrug.

“You want to draw on me?”

“You are a beautiful blank canvas, sunshine.”

She blinks at me, mulling the idea over, and then smiles slowly. “Okay but then I want something too.”

“What would that be?”

“I want to lick your stars.”

“You don’t need my permission to do that, you know.” My stomach clenches at the thought. When her little lips and tongue touch my hips I about go out of my mind.

She just shrugs happily. “That’s what I want.”

“Done. Come stand by the mirror.”

“I don’t get to lie down?” She pouts.

“Hell no, you get to watch.” I grin and lead her to the full-length mirror that hangs on the bathroom door and turn her so her back is facing the mirror, but she can look over her shoulder to watch.

I uncap the marker and start on her shoulder blades, drawing clouds and birds, a sun, and she gasps, bites her lip and watches with fascination.

“You’re good.”

“I like to doodle,” I murmur and keep focused on the task at hand. Once I turn her and start working on her breasts and sweet stomach, I’ll lose my concentration.

I continue to move the ink over her skin, adding an ocean and palm trees, sand, starfish. Along the bottom, across the top of her ass, I draw a music bar and add the notes to one of my favorite songs that I wrote called Wrapped In You. It’s a ballad, and one she’d know. We play it at every show.

“You’re writing music?!”


“I’ve already written this one, just putting it below the picture.”

I pull the marker down her legs in long swirls, drawing random designs on her white flesh.

“Wow, you’re good. Did you draw your own tats?” She asks.

“Some of them. Some I had done.”

“What’s up with the tats on your hands?” She’s watching my hand closely. She always traces the ink with her fingertip.

I shrug. “It reminds me to slow down.”

“But the word implies going fast,” she frowns.

“Exactly.”

“Who knew you were so deep?” She smirks and I smack her ass hard. She squeals and laughs. “I like to have my ass smacked you know.”

“I know,” I grin up at her and smack her again. “Okay, turn around.”

She obeys, and I smile in approval. The front will be a bit different. I draw another music bar, diagonal, running from her left hip, over her sternum, to her right shoulder, but low enough that her clothing will hide it.

I add the notes, from the same song on her back. When it’s finished, I start on the flowers.

Cherry blossoms, looping around the music, down her stomach, over her ribs.

She braces her hands on my shoulders; her eyes are pinned to the mirror over my head, watching intently. Her breathing is shallow, and I can smell her arousal.

She’s so f*cking turned on. I can’t wait to sink inside her.

I finish the petals that weave around her *, and then, on her hip, I sign my name.

Not because I’m the artist, but because she’s mine.

I’m completely in love with her. I just don’t know how to tell her because I’m afraid that as soon as I do, she’ll run at full speed in the other direction.

“All done,” I murmur and stand back, watching her turn in circles, admiring the art in the mirror.