“What’s going on with you?” I ask. “What do you mean?” I glance pointedly at where her hand is still toying with my suspender strap. She smiles at me, all predator, and slips her hand from my chest. I should probably be afraid, but I’m too entranced by her fingers playing along the neckline of her dress. It’s like silver ink poured over her skin, clinging to her curves. The cut of it frames the tattoo between her breasts almost perfectly. She traces it with one manicured finger. “A gentleman would probably tell me he likes my tattoo.” I clear my throat and stare at it. I can’t seem to drag my
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