And—fuck—she has tattoos. They’re all small, nothing larger than a playing card, but they dot up both arms, on her shoulder, a few on her fingers. I can see the hint of one on her ribs disappearing under her outfit. Cute, girlie stuff, like hearts and arrows and music notes. And fuck me if she doesn’t have a sexy little geometric pattern low on her sternum, disappearing between her breasts. Now I’m the pig wanting to see how far down it goes. I want to lick it. And she smells so good. It’s floral and smooth, but with a hint of spice. Shit. Fuck. Lock it down, Compton.
