Damon’s smirk deepened as he climbed closer, his muscles flexing under the ink, his wolf rumbling low. And I knew — I was doomed.
“You like them,” Damon said, his voice low and sinful, his eyes locked on me like he was reading my soul. “I can see it in your eyes, kitten. You want to touch them. You want to trace every line with your little fingers, don’t you?”
And oh my Goddess, I wanted to scream, because he was right. He was absolutely right. The second I saw those tattoos I wanted to claw him down, shove him flat, and lick every single curve of black ink until I was drunk on him. But do you think I could admit that? No. Because my stupid mouth is allergic to silence.
So what did I say? “I don’t! I don’t like them! You’re insane, Damon. Absolutely insane. I don’t care about your tatto
