Thirty-five minutes later, when the needle cuts into my finger like a razor blade, I suck in a deep breath of air. I can feel Wyatt’s intense eyes from the other side of the room, but I keep my own gaze focused on watching Corey’s boot work the foot pedal on the floor.
I go through the different emotions as Corey turns my skin into his canvas. At first there’s the pain. It builds up slow until it feels like he’s piercing everywhere at once. Then there’s the high—the sudden rush of adrenaline. It doesn’t kick in until I’m numb to the needle, and the only thing I’m able to feel is the vibration from the tattoo gun. And last . . . there’s the feeling of release. That doesn’t come until Corey finally leans away from me, and I hold my hand in front of my face to examine the tattoo.
Gone is the name MARTIN, which has branded me for more than seven years. In its place is a knotted design. It races around my ring finger, and there’s a tiny bow in the center. My new ink is nowhere near as intricate as the bluebird between my shoulder blades—nowhere near as painful as the blackbird on my collarbone—but it symbolizes something none of the others do.
Positive change.
It’s 2:49 AM when we climb back into the Suburban. Wyatt takes an alternate route out of Santa Fe, a back road, which causes the GPS to reset and estimate our time of arrival to 3:53 AM. He reaches into my lap and pulls my hand into his, being careful not to squeeze my wrapped-up finger.
“I’ve been amazed by you since the first time I touched you, Ky. I’ve wanted every part of you since that day,” he starts in a rough voice. “Do you know what the bluebird’s for?”
“Happiness,” I say, repeating what he explained to me about my own a few years ago. “A new beginning.”
He shakes his head. “It’s for you. You’re my happiness, and I’ll fight until the end to make sure you know that.”
In all the years we’ve played this toxic game—in all the years where we’ve sworn off being a real couple—this is the closest he’s come to telling me that he loves me, and it leaves me speechless. I turn down the radio volume, cancelling out the bittersweet grittiness of By The Way, my favorite Theory of a Deadman song.
I can’t listen to a song about being ripped apart and saying goodbye to the one you love when Wyatt's sitting right next to me, telling me all these things.
“I can’t let you go,” he continues. “Not when you’re the only goddamn thing on my mind. It’s impossible.”
I rub my hands back and forth over my face, letting his words seep in. He glances over at me, waiting, and I take a deep breath. “I can’t promise you anything, but I know how I feel about you.”
I know that I’ll hate it if he’s with anyone else.
“Come here,” he growls.
“You’re driving,” I point out.
He’s silent for a couple of minutes. But then, he eases the Suburban down a narrow dirt road shrouded by pine trees and cuts the ignition and the lights. “Come here.” This time his tone is far more demanding. It makes my pulse race.
I crawl across the center console, and my breath catches when he jerks me into his lap. It’s a tight fit, especially between the seat and the door, but I manage to place my legs on either side of his body.
“I can’t be in the same room as you without wanting you close to me,” he murmurs against my chin. He traces his lips down the column of my throat, the labret tickling my skin, and I shiver. “I can’t even be in the same car without keeping my hands off you.” His mouth touches the top of my left breast. He runs his tongue along it, and I arch my back until the steering wheel digs into my skin.
“We’re probably in someone’s driveway,” I moan. And yet, I’m already moving my hips against his, heat pooling in the pit of my belly as his c**k grows hard beneath me.
“If I can’t do anything without wanting you around”—he reaches between my legs, ripping my leggings at the spot between my thighs—“then why the f**k do you think I’ll ever stop trying?”
“You won’t.” I gasp because his fingers find my clit. He touches me through the outside of my panties, grinding the pad of his thumb against my sensitive flesh. “Unless I’m happy. If I were happy with someone else—something else—you’d stop wanting me.”
He kisses me greedily, skimming his fingers inside of my panties as he digs his other hand into the small of my back. I move my hips in time with his every movement, sucking on his bottom lip after he’s done the same to mine.
Finally, I grasp his c**k through his jeans. “You’d stop wanting me then, wouldn’t you?” I say, repeating the question I asked before he distracted me.
He drops his eyes to my hand on his dick. “Don’t start shit you’re not going to finish,” he whispers. “But to answer your question, I’ll never stop wanting you, even if you are happy. I’d just know when to leave well enough alone.”
His words make my head spin, and I drop my forehead to his shoulder as he continues to touch me. As he whispers unintelligible things into my ear.
I’m on the verge of climaxing when he pulls my hand away from the outside of his jeans. His fingers wrap around mine and, carefully, he helps me guide his zipper down.
“You’re not going to come unless I’m f**king you,” he says as I reach inside his boxers to stroke his cock. He touches me between my legs again, and I gasp when I hear my panties rip apart between his strong fingers. “I want to feel everything, beautiful.”