Tinta y luz de la tarde

I was staring at the dragon wrapped around her ribs when she caught me.

Maya turned from the window, one eyebrow arched, her wet hair dripping onto the wooden floor of the lake house. The afternoon sun sliced through the dusty glass, catching the green scales of the tattoo that curled from her hip up to just below her breast. "You know," she said, "most people start with my face."

"Your face is fine." I leaned against the kitchen counter, trying to look casual. "The ink's just... loud."

She laughed, and it was the first real sound she'd made since I'd picked her up hitchhiking three hours ago. "Loud. That's a new one." She walked closer, barefoot, still in the damp shirt she'd changed into after we'd stopped for gas. "You got any?"

I pulled up my sleeve, showed her the small compass on my forearm. "Just this."

"That's it?" She tilted her head, studying it. "One little compass? You seem like a man with more stories."

"I'm a man who doesn't get tattoos on a whim."

"You picked me up on the side of the road," she said, stepping closer. "That's pretty whimsical."

I could smell the lake on her skin, the cheap soap from the gas station. Her shirt was thin, clinging. The dragon's tail disappeared into the waistband of her shorts. "Maybe I'm full of surprises."

She reached out and touched the compass, her fingers warm against my arm. "Show me one."

The air between us thickened. "Show you what?"

"A surprise." Her hand dropped to my wrist, tugged gently. "Come on. I've been in a car with you for two hundred miles. I think I deserve something."

I didn't move. "What do you want?"

Her eyes held mine. "I want to see what's underneath."

I pulled my shirt off. Her gaze traveled down my chest, stopping at the thin scar above my hip, the one I'd never shown anyone on purpose. She traced it with her fingertip, featherlight, and I sucked in a breath.

"Now you," I said, my voice rough.

She smiled slowly. "You want to see the dragon properly?"

I nodded.

She unbuttoned her shorts, let them fall. The dragon wrapped around her torso, its tail curling low, its head resting just beneath her left breast. The ink was fresh, the lines sharp, red flowers blooming around it. She took my hand and placed it on the wet fabric of her shirt, right over the dragon's snout.

"Feel it," she whispered.

I pressed, feeling the heat of her skin through the cotton. My thumb brushed the edge of the ink, and she shivered. "The artist did good work."

"He did." She pulled the shirt over her head. The dragon was fully visible now, the green scales vivid against her pale skin. Her nipples were hard, and she didn't try to hide it.

I leaned in and kissed the dragon's head. Her breath hitched. I traced the curve of its body with my lips, following the ink down her ribs, feeling her skin pebble under my mouth. Her hand tangled in my hair, pulling me closer.

"Fuck," she breathed. "That's... that's not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know. Something less... careful."

I looked up at her. "I'm not careful. I'm just paying attention."

I stood, and we were face to face again. Her eyes were dark, her lips parted. I slid my fingers into her damp hair and kissed her, slow, tasting the salt on her lips. She moaned into my mouth, her hands gripping my shoulders.

The kiss deepened, her tongue finding mine, her body pressing against me. I could feel every line of the dragon against my chest, the raised ink like a second skin. I broke the kiss, trailing my mouth down her neck, over her collarbone, back to the dragon's head. I took her nipple into my mouth, and she gasped, her fingers tightening in my hair.

"God," she whispered. "Don't stop."

I didn't. I kissed lower, following the dragon's tail down her stomach, my tongue tracing the ink until I reached the waistband of her panties. I hooked my fingers under the elastic and pulled them down, and she stepped out of them, her thighs trembling.

She pushed me back onto the couch, climbing onto my lap, her skin hot against mine. I felt her wetness through my jeans, and I groaned. She ground against me, slow, deliberate, her head thrown back, the dragon rippling with her breath.

"Take these off," she said, tugging at my belt.

I did, fumbling with the buckle, my hands shaking. She laughed, soft and breathless, and helped me push my jeans down. Then she was straddling me again, the tip of me pressing against her, slick and warm.

"Mírame," dijo ella.

I did.

She sank down onto me, and the world narrowed to the feeling of her, tight and wet and perfect. Her mouth fell open, a soft cry escaping her. I gripped her hips, guiding her as she began to move, slow at first, then faster.

The couch creaked beneath us. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. The afternoon light painted her skin gold, the dragon coiling and uncoiling with every thrust.

"Harder," she whispered.

I flipped us, laying her back against the cushions, driving into her deeper. Her legs wrapped around my waist, her nails digging into my shoulders. The sound of our bodies meeting filled the room, wet and rhythmic.

"Close," she gasped. "Don't stop, don't stop—"

I didn't. I watched her face as she came, her back arching, her mouth open in a silent cry. The sight of her pushed me over, and I followed, burying my face in her neck as I spilled into her, my whole body shaking.

Afterward, we lay tangled together, the dragon pressed against my heart. Her fingers traced lazy patterns on my chest.

"So," she said, her voice sleepy. "Still think tattoos aren't worth the whim?"

I kissed the top of her head. "I think I might need a few more."

She laughed, soft and warm, and I felt the dragon rise and fall with her breath.