banks of powerful muscles flexing on either side of his spine as he made notes in a book he’d conjured from somewhere. So much skin. So much ink. His tattoos on his back were interwoven—bold, sweeping lines that seemed to form pathways and tell stories. I wasn’t about to lie to myself; I wanted to know about every single one of them—what they meant and when he’d got them. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking, though.
