Page 53 of PS: I Hate You
Then gives me a curt nod.
My world explodes.
Time has no meaning.
I think I faint but somehow stay standing.
It is very possible that slight dip of Dom’s head will be the simplest thing to set off an asthma attack in my life. But I manage to keep breathing while I wheeze out a single question.
“How?”
Dom narrows his eyes, but I would bet my favorite puzzle he’s trying not to smile.
“Vodka.” He lifts a shoulder and drops it back into place. “And it was his birthday.”
“I think I might cry.” Or I would if my tear ducts were functioning properly. But that is how overjoyed I am to discover that Mr.Responsible Asshole has a goofy picture forever inked onto his derrière.
It’s too beautiful of a thought to believe.
“Ineedto see it.”
Dom’s head jerks back, eyes widening. “What?”
I don’t know why, but in this moment, there is nothing I want more in the world than to see that tattoo. “Moon me. Right now. I demand proof.”
Both of Dom’s brows raise this time. “You can’t be serious.”
I rub my hands together with an evil grin, then cup them around my mouth. “Show us the goods!”
There’s a chortle to my right, and that’s when I remember there’s more than just Dom and me in the shop. Glancing over, I realize that Reggie is sitting on a low stool near a set of tattooing tools, watching our back-and-forth with a grin on his face.
“We’ve got a bathroom down the hall if you want some privacy.” He throws a thumb over his shoulder.
I don’t give Dom an opportunity to decline. I press my hands into his lower back and use every ounce of my not-very-much strength to force him toward the restroom. When his feet shuffle forward, I know I’ve won, because if Dom didn’t want me to move him, then he wouldn’t move.
We reach the bathroom, which is plenty large enough to fit us both, and I shut the door behind us. Closing us in.
“Show me.” I cross my arms and hit Dom with a demanding glare even as I fight off eager giggles.
This can’t be real. Dominic Perrycannothave a tattoo on his butt.
The man meets me stare for stare. Then his fingers go to his fly and heat explodes across my cheeks when I realize exactly what is about to happen.
Dom is going to strip for me.
When we dunked ourselves in the frigid ocean, he kept his underwear on. Even on the night of the ill-fated pity finger bang, Dom never got fully naked. Not that he’s getting naked now, either. But I’m going to lay my eyes on a new part of him.
The sound of his zipper is loud in the suddenly too-quiet bathroom.
He turns his back toward me, and I catch my breath. He hikes up his shirt, and my pulse thrums. He hooks a thumb in his waistband, and I bite hard into my lower lip.
Then Dom bares his right ass cheek to me.
Briefly, all I can register is how tight and perfectly formed the partial globe is. But in the next second, all I can see is the image embedded in his skin.
It’s the same style, thick lines and bold colors. The same arrangement of an open jar and a slice of bread covered in goo. Only Dom’s is a jelly jar with grapes on the label and purple coloring.
The other half of the PB and J.