“What?” I glance back with a raised brow.

“What was that for?”

“For teasing me about my band. You can never meet Eric now. I’ll have to kill him, and he’s too good to replace.”

She laughs her raspy, throaty laugh, and follows me into the bedroom.

“So, back to the original subject.”

“Yeah, back to the kissing.”

“No, sweetheart, the subject before that.” I laugh. God, she’s funny. I pull a gift bag out of my closet and hand it to her nervously.

Maybe this is a stupid idea.

Her eyes light up like it’s Christmas morning at the sight of the red gift bag.

“For me?” She asks and bounces on the balls of her feet.

Note to self: she likes presents.

“I don’t see anyone else here, baby.”

“Gimme.” She extends her arms, wiggling her fingers, her sweet face all happy and glowing and she looks like a kid.

I hand her the bag and stuff my hands in the pockets of the jeans I threw on before heading downstairs.

“Why are you nervous?” She tilts her head to the side, watching me.

“I’m not.”

Her eyes narrow as she studies me. “Uh huh. Sure.”

She knows me too well already.

“Open it.”

She tosses the white tissue paper on the floor and pulls the soft white t-shirt out of the bag, snaps it open and stares at the front, her mouth gaping open.

“It’s a Nash t-shirt,” she whispers, her eyes traveling over the photo of me and the guys on the front.

“Yeah, you were in Tahiti.” I shrug.

She immediately strips out of my shirt and pulls the tee over her head, looks down at it and back up at me with a wide smile. “I love it.”

“Good. I love seeing my name on you,” I whisper.

She launches herself into my arms and kisses me soundly. “It’s really soft,” she murmurs. “Do you have a sharpie?”

“Probably, why?”

“Will you sign it?” She’s bouncing again, like a fan, and it makes me still for just a moment.

I don’t need a crazy fan-girl as my girlfriend.

And then I remember; this is Sam. She’s no one’s fan-girl.

“Why?” I ask again.

“In case I want to sell it on eBay.” She bats her lashes at me and my stomach loosens. I dig around in my computer bag and pull out a black marker.

“Where do you want me to sign it, smart ass?”

“Duh.” She rolls her eyes. She’s so getting spanked. “On my boob!”

“On your boob!” I pinch the bridge of my nose and laugh.

“Like you’ve never signed boobs before,” she smirks.

“Oh, I’ve signed my share.”

“I figured. So mine shouldn’t shock you.”

“I love your boobs.” I lean down and kiss her cheek. She has great tits.

“So sign them.” She steps back and thrusts her breast toward me and my cock immediately strains against my jeans.

I slowly sign her shirt, right over her breast, my eyes on hers. She bites that plump bottom lip of hers and sucks in a breath, her eyes dilate.

God, she’ll be the death of me.

“All done,” I whisper.

“Thanks,” she whispers back, and then blinks, pulling herself out of the sexy trance. She pulls the shirt over her head, folds it carefully and places it back in the bag and walks over to her clothes.

“Stop,” I order her.

She glances at me with surprise. “What?”

“Come here.”

She frowns and stands in front of me again.

“I’m not done.”

“You signed the shirt.”

“Yeah,” my eyes follow her curves, her lines, and her nipples pucker under my gaze. “But I’d like to play.”

“With the Sharpie?”

I shrug.

“You want to draw on me?”

“You are a beautiful blank canvas, sunshine.”

She blinks at me, mulling the idea over, and then smiles slowly. “Okay but then I want something too.”

“What would that be?”

“I want to lick your stars.”

“You don’t need my permission to do that, you know.” My stomach clenches at the thought. When her little lips and tongue touch my hips I about go out of my mind.

She just shrugs happily. “That’s what I want.”

“Done. Come stand by the mirror.”

“I don’t get to lie down?” She pouts.

“Hell no, you get to watch.” I grin and lead her to the full-length mirror that hangs on the bathroom door and turn her so her back is facing the mirror, but she can look over her shoulder to watch.

I uncap the marker and start on her shoulder blades, drawing clouds and birds, a sun, and she gasps, bites her lip and watches with fascination.

“You’re good.”

“I like to doodle,” I murmur and keep focused on the task at hand. Once I turn her and start working on her breasts and sweet stomach, I’ll lose my concentration.

I continue to move the ink over her skin, adding an ocean and palm trees, sand, starfish. Along the bottom, across the top of her ass, I draw a music bar and add the notes to one of my favorite songs that I wrote called Wrapped In You. It’s a ballad, and one she’d know. We play it at every show.

“You’re writing music?!”

“I’ve already written this one, just putting it below the picture.”

I pull the marker down her legs in long swirls, drawing random designs on her white flesh.

“Wow, you’re good. Did you draw your own tats?” She asks.

“Some of them. Some I had done.”

“What’s up with the tats on your hands?” She’s watching my hand closely. She always traces the ink with her fingertip.

I shrug. “It reminds me to slow down.”

“But the word implies going fast,” she frowns.

“Exactly.”

“Who knew you were so deep?” She smirks and I smack her ass hard. She squeals and laughs. “I like to have my ass smacked you know.”

“I know,” I grin up at her and smack her again. “Okay, turn around.”

She obeys, and I smile in approval. The front will be a bit different. I draw another music bar, diagonal, running from her left hip, over her sternum, to her right shoulder, but low enough that her clothing will hide it.

I add the notes, from the same song on her back. When it’s finished, I start on the flowers.