The Million Dollar Virgin

Chapter Eight - Rian

Before he could stop himself, Rian reached out. His finger found the figure-eight loop on Steffania's – Stevie's – wrist. For the second time, he traced the endless shape of it. Once. Twice. A third time. And rather than pulling away, she closed her eyes, and her palm opened.

The pose was vulnerable. Full of temptation. Rian itched to lift her hand his lips. To drag his mouth over the lifelines and the delicate, feminine webbing, then down to the tattoo. Just thinking about it made him ache to try it.

He forced himself to pull away and speak instead. "Is this for them?"

She tipped her face his way, her eyes opening slowly – like they were weighed down. "No. Not quite. It's more complicated than that."

Her obvious hedging probably should have set him off. It sounded like the exact kind of thing that would bite him in the ass, come filming time. Probably something she hadn't disclosed in her dealings with Lee. But it didn't make Rian mad. Instead, it filled him with desire. Both to know the details and soothe away her hurt using whatever means necessary. He was damned sure that if he asked for the first – or acted on the second – he'd earn another foot stomp.

Or worse.

So he chose an alternative route.

He leaned back, unzipped his hoodie, and lifted up his T-shirt, exposing his stomach and his ink.

For a second, the back of the car stayed quiet, and Stevie remained still. Then she raised her hand, and the tips of her fingers – cool in reality, but searing hot against his skin nonetheless – found the edges of his tattoo. She followed the sharp slashes of the Roman numerals, one line after the other. Slowly. Unintentionally seductive.

There were four complete sets of numerals, each long enough that they wrapped from his back to his stomach, and by the time Stevie finished her perusal, Rian's breathing had grown shallow. Ninety percent of the blood in his body had rushed away from its rightful place in his arteries and settled between his legs instead.

No. Settled isn't the right word.

But words seemed to be in short supply. As did any other kind of brain function. His head was thrumming so badly that it actually took him several seconds to realize Stevie had opened her mouth and was midway through a statement. Or maybe a question.

Christ, Rian. Focus.

"...years?" she finished.

Yeah, it was a question, and yeah, he'd missed it. She'd pulled away her hand, though, and that helped a little. Rian did his best to pretend he'd heard her full query.

"Each line is a year that changed the course of my life," he said.

"For better?"

"No. Just the moments that shaped me."

Her finger came back up to run across the first line. "What's this one?"

"That's the year my mom finally left my dad after a decade and a half of putting up with his abuse."

"And this one?"

"The year she took him back."

"And the third?"

"The year he got so high that he drove them into a tree, killing them both instantly."

He met her eyes then, and saw that her expression had grown soft with understanding. "And the fourth?"