Make Me Bad(30)

I need to move. My legs need to propel me toward the table, the table on which a beautiful woman sits, nearly naked.

Blood is rushing south.

My dick assumes it’s go-time.

“Turn around,” I say brusquely, both to give my body time to control itself and so I can actually reach the spot where I need to tape.

She gives me an odd look and then props her feet up on the table, angling her exposed side and back toward me. She has a delicate spine. Small waist. Fair skin that looks silky to the touch.

Angrily, I step forward and yank off some tape, leaning down to press it against her skin and the drape. I’m not gentle, by any means, and Madison tells me so.

“Good thing you’re not the one giving me the tattoo.”

Yes. Good thing.

I do a bang-up job with that tape. I use half the roll. Paul won’t see the barest hint of Madison’s breasts. Also, she’ll probably have to wear the drape for the rest of her life because it’s permanently attached to her skin now. I step back, proud, before Paul reenters the room.

“All set?”

I chuck the tape at him. Unfortunately, it doesn’t smack him in the head like I want it to.

“All set.”





I was already aware that Madison is a talker in normal circumstances, but in instances of high stress—like now—she’s a veritable chatterbox. Paul’s moments away from getting started. He’s assured her we’ll only be here thirty minutes, forty-five tops. Madison is lying on her side with her head resting on her right arm so Paul can access the area of skin along the edge of her ribs. I’m sitting on a stool near her head, out of Paul’s way but close enough that I can see what he’s doing.

I steal quick, intense glances at her bare back. I wished I’d taped the other side of the drape to her skin as well. It pools on the table, exposing all of her trim back down to the top of her jeans. Her hair splays out across the table. It shouldn’t be sensual, but it is. All of this is, even as she describes her job at the library to Paul. She’s outlined the various programs they offer and her favorite children’s authors, and now she’s in the middle of explaining a spring reading initiative when Paul interrupts to tell her he’s going to start.

“Oh god, really? Okay. Did the needle just get louder or is that just me? Did I already tell you guys I don’t like needles?”

Twice.

Her eyes jerk up to me. “Will you hold my hand?”

Paul glances to me. “Actually, try drawing on her hand. The movement will distract her from the pain more, but don’t tickle her. If she flinches, I’ll mess up.”

She lets out a nervous laugh. “Oh god, I thought he was going to say, If she flinches, I’ll kill her.”

Wow. Her brain has left the building. She’s a mess. I reach for her hand and rest it on my knee. Her body is still angled where Paul needs it, but now I have better access to her palm. I spread it flat, amazed by how small it is. How can a human adult have hands this small? This soft?

“Your hand is really warm,” she says, half delirious with nerves. Our eyes are locked when Paul begins.

“If you need me to take a break, let me know.”

“Ah!” she yelps as soon as the needle meets skin.

“Is it too painful?” he asks, but her eyes are still on me.

I tilt my head in question. “Going to chicken out so soon? What about your list?”

She bites her bottom lip and shakes her head. Paul continues.

Her eyes pinch closed and her palm tries to curl in on itself, but I flatten it back out and think of some way to distract her. It shouldn’t be that hard, but she’s distracting me. We’re touching, holding hands, almost. Her skin feels good against mine. I hadn’t thought my hands were all that calloused from the gym and the odd jobs I did around my house during the remodel, but compared to hers, they’re rough.

She winces and I remember my duty: distract her.

“Try to tell me what word I’m spelling out.”

She blinks her eyes open. “What?”

I start to draw letters against her palm with the pad of my finger to show her what I mean: M-A-D-I…

“Madison,” she guesses. The edge of her mouth hitches and I know I’ve got her.

I smile and start again, focusing my attention on her hand. Now that she’s watching me, I can’t think of a single word. I’m just drawing aimlessly on her palm. It’s cathartic. I trace her lifelines and wonder what pieces of her future they hold, if any. I wonder if the tugging in my chest is from the pizza Andy and I split at lunch or if I’m completely ignoring an obvious truth standing (or rather, lying) right in front of me.

She scrunches her nose. “I didn’t catch any of that. Were those letters?”

I clear my throat. “Let me try again.”

B-E-N.

She laughs. “Creative.”

W-A-S.

“Oh my gosh. Tell me you aren’t—”

H-E-R-E.

Paul glances up, watching Madison laugh with an appreciative gleam in his eye. “How long have you two been together?”

Our mouths open at the same time as if we’re both about to rush out a reply and tidy up this situation before it becomes any more awkward, but then seconds ticks by. More. Neither of us says a word. Maybe we want to avoid the sitcom trope of speaking over one another and telling conflicting stories. A week! A month! Or maybe neither of us is in a hurry to correct him. We both close our mouths and I watch as Madison’s eyes soften and her lips curl into a tempting smirk. She’s daring me to play along.