Chapter 12 ~ Rafe #2
“I mean, when I acted like a fucking coward and clearly hurt your feelings.”
He blinks, surprise flickering across his face before he masks it. “Rafe—”
“Let me finish.” I take a breath, rubbing my sweaty hands along my pants. “I freaked out. Nyla walked in, and I panicked. I let you leave when I shouldn’t have, and I’ve hated myself for it every second since.” I reach for the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head. “I am so fucking sorry.”
Minho’s eyes go wide.
The tattoo is still covered, but the film catches the lights, a little rectangle right over my heart.
I peel back the edge of the tape, enough to reveal the top of the lettering of his name I had designed in the gothic style, matching the logo of the band he likes listening to before he plays the piano—Seventh Riot or something I think they call themselves.
“I wanted something that makes me yours.” My voice is shaky as I keep eye contact with him when he doesn’t say anything. “I didn't want there to be any doubt about where my heart is—or who it belongs to.”
He’s just staring at the tattoo, the edges of his mouth twitching, while his bright brown eyes remain unreadable. But I see the gears turning in that beautiful head of his, the shock, disbelief and understanding hidden behind his mask of indifference.
“You got my name.” His voice cracks on the last word.
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Tattooed over your heart.”
“Mhm.”
He tilts his head to the side, biting down on his lower lip as he takes in the tattoo. “All because you panicked when my friend walked in on us.”
I’ll break a few rules if he kisses me with those lips in the next second before I pounce on him—that’s all he gets; then I am going to devour him. “Because I want you to know I am not going to run from what I want.” I take a step toward him, not enough to close the distance but enough so he can.
Minho crosses the space between us in two steps, his hand coming up to hover over the film, not quite touching it as his fingers tremble. “Can I see it? The whole tattoo, I mean.”
I carefully peel the film away, wincing as it tugs at the raw skin and fresh ink. His name sits there, bold and dark against my chest—Minho, in the clean gothic script following the line of my pectoral muscle.
His breath catches, thumb tracing the edges of the tattoo, featherlight, and I shudder at the touch. “It’s perfect,” he whispers. “An insane thing to do, but it's perfect.”
“I meant what I said,” I tell him, catching his wrist gently. “I am done running, done hiding what I want, so if you’ll have me, I am yours.”
He looks at me, and there it is, the same heat from our almost kiss, the same tingling feeling that crackles like electricity along my skin and this time, there is no one here to interrupt what I have been thinking about doing for days now.
My brother knows better, so I don't have to worry about him barging in on us.
Minho kisses me, hard, his hand fisting in my hair, pulling me down to him, and I groan into his mouth, the fresh tattoo burning as he presses against my chest. I walk him backwards until his thighs hit the edge of the counter behind him, and I lift him onto it without breaking the kiss.
“I need to mark you too,” I breathe against his lips, the words coming out rough and desperate as I grin into his open thighs. “Something for me that says you’re mine.”
Please say yes.
I need him to say yes.
His breath hitches. “What do you have in mind?”
Not a yes, but it isn't a no either.
My fingers find the hem of his shorts. “I want to put my mouth on you first, then I want to leave a mark you’ll remember and feel every time you sit down tomorrow.”
Minho’s pupils blow wide. “Jesus, Rafe.”
“Is that a yes?”
“That's a please don’t stop.”
Fuck me, he’s mine after this—so utterly mine and I am going to ruin him for anyone else—maybe I’ll even make sure Bellamy knows Minho is mine.
I pull his shorts down his thighs, and I am surprised to see he isn't wearing boxer briefs when his cock springs free half-hard, holy shit—he came here commando to see me. “Fuck,” I breathe.
He smirks. “Like what you see, sir?”
God, I hope he calls me that more often going forward.
I lean in close, lips hovering over his. “You know damn well I like what I see.” It takes all my willpower not to rush this. I watch the way his chest rises and falls, the way his lips part, the way his hands grip the edge of the counter like he is holding on for dear life.
Cute.
I pick Minho up again with ease and set him down on the leather chair I was sitting on while my brother worked on me, his tattoo gun still on the tray, fitted with a clean needle. I reach for it, and Minho’s eyes widen.
“Wait,” he laughs. “You’re going to tattoo me right now?”
I grin. “Not with ink—not yet anyway, just the vibration of what I want to put on you later.” I turn the machine on, the familiar buzz filling the silence of the shop. I adjust his chair so he can lie down. “Close your eyes, trust me.”
He does as he’s told, his lashes brushing his cheeks, breathing shallow as he gets comfortable in the chair.