He kneels, even with my hips. He lifts the bandage back up and pats the tape into place. “Keep it covered,” he orders. “For at least twenty-four hours. Then clean it with an unscented soap and water. No scrubbing. Aquaphor or unscented lotion to keep it hydrated after that.” Tattoo care instructions. What the fuck? “What does it say?” He looks up at me, frowning. Still on his knees before me. “It says you’re mine.”
Crazy. I love it
