I’ve been complaining, but secretly, I love that he chose this.
It’s like he’s left a part of himself on me—even though he’s already marked me in so many ways…my mind…my heart.
He barks out a laugh. “Says the woman who had a map of Boston—with the word Boston and a heart written inside the map—tattooed on my arse.”
I snort out a laugh and lift up onto my elbows as I smile back at him. “I thought it would be a nice way for you to remember me.”
“I don’t need a tattoo to remember you, babe.”
His words run through me like hot and cold water in my veins.
Then, he says, “But did you have to put the heart in though?” He’s shaking his head with dismay.
Well, the heart was my indirect way of telling him how I feel. That he has Boston’s heart…my heart.
But, now, I feel bad. I guess I didn’t think it through properly.
“I’m sorry.” I give him a regretful look.
I might have been trying to give him my heart, but I forgot that he’s a guy. Guys don’t like hearts.
He stares at me, his expression fiercely strong. “You don’t ever have to apologize to me.”
I do. I really do.
I bite my lip. “Will you have it removed?” I lay my head on my arm, but I’m still looking back at him.
“The tattoo?” he asks, while he continues to gently smooth the cream over my tattoo.
“Yes.”
He frowns, like the thought is absurd to him. “No, because you put it there, theoretically speaking.” The frown deepens, forcing lines around his eyes. Then, I see his eyes flicker with a thought. “Will you have yours removed?”
I firmly shake my head.
Never.
Even if I were going to be around for a long time, I still wouldn’t get it removed. Because it’s him.
He smiles, and it warms my insides.
I lay my head back, brushing my hair off my ear.
Liam chuckles and says, “I can’t believe you got your ears pierced as well. Glutton for punishment.”
I asked Den if he could pierce my ears after Liam’s tattoo was done. He had the time, so he did them.
I know getting my ears pierced isn’t crazy or daring, like a nipple piercing would have been. But I never got to have my ears pierced when I was younger. My dad was strict about it and said I could get them done when I turned sixteen. Only the brain tumor happened, and I just never got around to having them pierced.
I’ve rectified that now.
“It just made sense.” I shrug. “I was there. They did piercings.”
“Are your ears sore?”
“A little. Not as bad as I expected. My ass, on the other hand…”
“I hear ya. Call me a *, but that tattoo fucking hurt. Still does,” Liam says with a grumble in his voice.
I look back at him again. “I didn’t know the word * was in your vocab, Hunter.”
“Only your *.” He grins and then tosses the cream beside me on the bed. “My turn.”
He moves from behind me and lies on his front on the bed.
He’s already naked. Took his clothes off the moment we got back.
Another thing I’m not complaining about. Naked Liam is an awesome sight.
Picking up the cream, I get to my knees and straddle his thighs.
He has the nicest ass. Tight and firm. Makes me want to bite it. But I won’t.
I remove the cap, squeeze some cream out onto my fingers, and put the cap back on. I put the tube on the bed beside Liam, and I carefully start to apply it to his tattoo.
He lets out a sound of relief.
“Better?” I ask.
“Much.”
“I still can’t believe you got a tattoo.” I giggle.
“The things I do for you,” he says, the words muffled into the pillow.
Did he do this for me? I mean, I never asked him to. But I don’t think he means it in that way.
But how does he mean it?
I really don’t know how to ask. So, I don’t.
I just start to hum a tune, and then I softly sing the words to the song that has been stuck in my head since I heard it in the car on the way back to his apartment after the tattooing was done—Justin Bieber’s “Sorry.”
When I think about what that song is about, I realize that maybe there is a reason it’s stuck in my head.
Because I am sorry. Sorry for every time I’ve lied to him. And how I still continue to do so.
“Babe, you’re rubbing cream onto my arse and singing Bieber’s ‘Sorry.’ Really not sure how to feel about that.”
And there he is, making me laugh again.
I let my laughter die, and then I say softly, “Maybe I am sorry.”
He looks back at me. I see confusion and a hint of worry in his eyes.
“And what are you sorry for?”
Everything.
“The tattoo. The heart. I should’ve thought about it.”
His brows pull together. “I told you, don’t ever be sorry to me. And, yeah, the heart is a little chick-ish, but it’s not like many people are going to see it.”
Just other women after I’m gone.