Tattoo

They were still laughing about it as she slipped the key in her room. Everyone else was still off doing their own thing and wouldn’t be expecting them to show up for another few hours. Somewhere during lunch over gourmet burgers, between the first beer and the third, they had agreed that a fake tattoo was a good idea. Given that several in the crew had real ones, maybe no one would be as surprised as the two of them imagined they would be, two beers into the discussion. But they’d managed to find a place that did pretty nice faux artwork after lunch, and she’d promised him honors of getting the first photo before the nights festivities and the good chance that it might wear off quickly.

He excused himself to use the bathroom, and she tucked a few of the other packages she’d grabbed along the way. A few beers had a nice way of numbing men’s intolerance for shopping, and she’d grabbed a couple souvenirs and gifts on the way back from lunch with little protest. She was tucking the last item in her suitcase when he came out of the bathroom, and she giggled when she looked up.

“I know it’s stupid but I totally have this ‘naughty schoolteacher’ feeling now . . . my 7th graders would die if they knew I had something like this!”

“No worries,” he said. “It will wear off in a couple days and you’ll be back to Miss Prim and Proper . . . they won’t even know the difference. Of course, I still haven’t seen evidence of just how ‘naughty schoolteacher’ you got . . . and I think you still owe me the exclusive photo op, don’t you?”

She felt herself flush, a little, hesitating. The room felt incrementally smaller, even though he was still standing in the same place. “Of course . . . has to be someone I trust. You have the camera?”

He held it up for her to see. “You still didn’t tell me where it is or what you got. Butterfly on your shoulder? ‘I heart Mom’ on your arm? Aces on your butt cheek?” He stood, smirking, waiting for her.

She laughed. “Aces on my butt cheek . . . nice. I’m sure there is a pun in there somewhere about aces getting cracked . . . but beer and burgers are making me fuzzy and I don’t have it ready for you.” She laughed again, and he laughed with her. “No silly . . . I got . . . well . . . I got a tramp stamp.”

His eyebrow arched, and maybe his smile faltered for just a second, but then he grinned. “What’s it say?”

For something silly and temporary, she’d actually debated quite a bit. Thought about getting the name of some hair metal band, to be funny. Or something equally stupid, like “Princess” or “Juicy” stamped low on her back. In the end, she’d opted for something aesthetically pleasing, with classical scrolls and loops that tapered downward in a delicate triangle. Even with a pair of low slung jeans, only a hint was visible, and was covered by her long fitted shirt.

“You have to come see . . . but over here, by the window. Lighting is better for pictures.” He walked around the other side of the bed, to the sitting area by the window. She stood next to one of the chairs, fidgeting a bit. “You ready?”

He nodded, and she turned around, lifting her shirt up in back, exposing her waist and lower back. “I only see a couple bits . . . your jeans cover most of it.” She looked back, and sure enough, it wasn’t possible to see much of the design at all. She bent over slightly, feeling a little silly, and he said “That’s a little better . . . but you’re not going to get much in the picture, you know.”

“What do you suggest, Mr. Photographer genius?” she asked, straightening back up.

“Unbutton your jeans,” he responded, very matter-of-factly. Stared her straight in the eye, waiting to see if she’d flinch. She raised an eyebrow, and felt compelled to swallow. “Unbutton your jeans, so there is a little more flexibility, then lean over the chair with your back arched. That should let them slide enough to show the whole thing off.”

Her fingers went instinctively to the button on her jeans and paused; her mind went, unbidden, to another brief series of thoughts that had nothing to do with the current situation or any known reality, except that he was standing only a couple steps from her. She glanced at him again, and saw him swallow now, almost as if he’d read her mind for that nanosecond.

She undid the button, and turned around, leaning down and resting on the chair. She reached back to settle her jeans a little lower on her hips, nearly down to the lacy line of the low rise panties she wore. “Better?” she asked, looking back at him. He was staring, his breathing shallow, one hand holding the camera casually. He reached out with his right hand, and she felt his fingers trace the pattern, burning their own pattern in her skin. “Nice,” he whispered. She felt the gooseflesh start to rise.

His fingers hooked her waistband, tugging another half inch, and her skin kept the memory a few seconds longer. He positioned the camera and snapped a few shots; he’d look at the camera now and then, make a quick adjustment, and shoot again. “There,” he said, his voice softer.

She stood up, buttoning the jeans again, a leftover warmth on her skin where his fingers had brushed lightly. She exhaled, realizing she’d been holding her breath the whole time, which made her a little light-headed. When she turned around, he glanced up from the camera screen to her face, and she noticed a little color had crept into his face. “Very nice,” he chuckled. “Want to see?”

She moved close to him, leaning over his shoulder to view the small LCD screen. This close, she could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, smell the hotel soap he’d used to shower with, mixed with the warm, yeasty smell of beer from lunch. She took a deep breath, smelling more, and reached over with one hand to tilt the camera so she could see better. She touched his fingers in the process; he didn’t move them.

He flipped through the shots, pausing to show her, and she realized he had a good eye for lighting and framing, capturing the curve of the small of her back, the intricacies of the temporary design. One particularly good shot seemed just perfect, and she exclaimed “That’s nice!” as she turned to face him. He turned at the exact same moment, his face close enough to hers that she could feel the heat radiating from his cheeks, their breaths swirling together in the small space. Until she stopped breathing, waiting. Feeling the electricity crackle, the small hairs on her neck at full attention.

He closed gap, brushing his lips against hers, testing, and her mouth responded without hesitation, brushing back, opening slightly, his top lip fitted between her own. A small noise startled her, until she realized it came from her own throat; his response was muffled as he fit his mouth tightly against hers, his arm coming up to pull her body against him. She let herself meld to his chest, let his tongue explore her mouth.

The knock on the door and the muffled “housekeeping” made them both jump and pull away. His lips were flushed against his pale skin and she had a hard time pulling her eyes away from his face. She turned and went to the door, cracking it slightly to send the hotel staff away. Certain they could hear her heart beating. She closed the door, leaning against it, watching him across the room. Waiting for the next step.