38

His finger moved lower and she tensed. “When did you get it done?”

She closed her eyes and clamped her lips together, wishing she could just grab his head and put his mouth to better use. “Alaric.”

“Tell me when.” His finger traveled up the inside of her thigh, stopping just below her heat. “How old were you?”

The bastard was relentless. Her skin burned and her body pulsed with yearning. “I was eighteen,” she bit out. “Happy?”

“Yes.” He cupped her between the thighs, covering her throbbing center. “Happy?”

Her back bowed as her hips immediately pushed against his hand. “Getting there…”

“Hmm.” He pressed a kiss to the crease of her thigh as he rotated his palm, eliciting a throaty moan from her. “Drunk or sober?”

“What?” she gasped.

He pressed his palm against her. “Were you drunk or sober when you got the tattoo?”

She wanted to refuse him, but then he lifted his hand. Cool air brushed her and she muttered a curse. Alaric laughed. “I was a little drunk,” she admitted, and was rewarded