She touched the raised pink scar that made a diagonal down his side. “How many times have you deployed?” she asked, meeting his eyes in the darkness.
“I’ve been deployed four times in the last eleven years.”
Her brows furrowed as she took in the smile that crept onto his face. “And you love it?”
“And I love it. I hate the fuckin’ layers of darkness that seem to hover, a constant fuckin’ reminder of the men I’ve lost. But it’s who I am. I’m a soldier. Take the good with the bad and keep on going. I love it.
“After that first deployment, me and some of the guys in Barracuda went to Austin and got some ink. I learned a lot from those guys. Some of the best men I’ve ever met.” His stare gravitated toward the ceiling, an apparent shift splintering through his memory again. Tilting his head back to her, he smiled. “That’s when I got the tattoo on my back.”
She propped up on her elbow and rested her head on her hand as she listened.
“This wickedly talented chick, Ronnie, did it for me. She made me feel like a complete pansy the one and only time I asked her for a cigarette break. It took her seven hours, and she only stopped once.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Pansy, my ass.”
“Well, she did an amazing job,” Fallon said, approving of the angelic wings that rippled across his sculpted back. “What’s its meaning?”
“It represents how when a soldier dies for his country—for his brother, sisters, friends—he gives his life up for another, to protect another, and to give them their freedom. Now they watch over us as they walk with the only other man who was ever willing to sacrifice himself for us.
“This one”—he pointed to a tribal symbol on his bicep—“was my first tattoo and has absolutely no meaning. I don’t regret a single one, though I could have probably done without this one. I was seventeen, piss-ass drunk, and more than likely high.”
She laughed and dropped her head back to the pillow.
“I like that.”
“What?”
“When you laugh. You should do it more often.” His fingers brushed away the rogue hair that fell across her face. “What about you? Any ink?”
She snickered at his ability to fluently shift from topic to topic in the same breath.
Flattening her hands on the mattress, she pushed herself up into a sitting position. The cover fell when she straightened, exposing her bare breasts as she leaned into the pillows propped against her headboard. Modesty and physical insecurities weren’t things she dwelled upon. She was confident in her skin, proud of her body, and content with the beauty and self-worth she possessed. She was a dancer—her body was her canvas and there was never room for insecurities in her art. Ballet and burlesque alike.
But as the cover fell from her body and the casual but intimate appreciation in Rafe’s eyes skirted over her naked skin, she felt a slight tenseness in her muscles and a heaviness in her stomach. She felt vulnerable.
Pulling her right leg from the covers, she lifted her foot slightly off the bed and pointed her toes. “My very first tattoo. It was also my very first act of rebellion. I got it when I was sixteen after my first lead role, as Titania in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
Sitting up next to her, Rafe grabbed her foot between his hands, causing her to pull in a sharp breath from the surprise as he spun her body by her foot and pulled her to him.
Now that she was facing him, she was open to him, exposed in his direct line of vision. Her vulnerability kicked up a notch, which only made the compromising position she was in even hotter.
He lifted her foot closer to him, inspecting the small, feminine script that ran along her instep from toe to heel: The Pointe of Life Can Be Found on Your Toes.
He read the words aloud, running his finger over each word as he said it. She thought she moaned—she couldn’t be completely sure, because he was still touching her, turning her mind to slush.
His hands skimmed their way from the inside of her foot to her calves, slowly torturing her as his skilled fingers kneaded the muscles of her thighs. When he reached her hips, he tugged her forward until she was no longer touching the silky cotton of her sheets but instead the warmth of his body as he situated her on his lap.
Drifting his hands up her sides, he tickled her skin with his rough touch. It felt so good, so relaxing, she had to stifle a moan.
“What about this one?” he asked when his fingers reached her wrists.
Once again, his fingers fluttered across her tattoo as he read the word aloud: Unconditional.
She felt a suffocating tightening in her chest as her mind wandered to the one and only time she’d ever felt the brief bliss of unconditional love. It was beautiful. And it was gone before she had a chance to truly soak the feeling into her veins.