His POV

“You really gonna keep ignoring me for that iPad, sweetheart?”

My voice came out lower than I meant. Damp, husky—still heavy from the shower. I stood by the edge of the bed, towel slung low on my hips, too low to be accidental. She didn’t even flinch. But I saw it—the way her thumb paused on the screen. The way her breath slowed for just a beat.

The tattoos across my chest still glistened with water, ink running like shadows down muscle and skin. They always caught her eye. She used to ask about the stories behind them. Now she just stares—quiet, like she’s afraid the art might stare back.

I took a slow step closer, bare feet silent against the marble floor. The air in the villa felt thick. Heavy. She was wrapped in my shirt, lying like temptation itself. I sat at the edge of the bed near her legs. She still didn’t look at me. Still pretending.

Cute.

I leaned in, close enough that my breath brushed her cheek.

“You always talk about coloring in my tattoos,” I murmured, fingers brushing down my side to the black ink curling toward my hip. Then I shifted the towel just enough—exposing skin right above the V-line, where the last traces of ink vanish under linen. “How about you start with this one?”

That got her attention.

Her eyes dragged up. Big. Dark. Wanting. She didn’t speak—but her silence said enough. My mouth curved into something sharp.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I said. “You’re the one stretched out on my bed, in my shirt, in my villa. Watching me walk around half-naked like you don’t care, like I’m the one playing games.”

I reached out, brushed a strand of hair from her face. Gentle. But there was weight behind it—like I wanted her to feel just how still I was holding myself.

“I’m not one of the boys your age who fumble their way through a stare,” I said softly, my tone dipping lower. “I’m a man. And you’ve known that since the first time you realized how quiet I get when I want something.”

I pulled the iPad from her hands, set it aside on the nightstand with slow, deliberate care. My fingers grazed her thigh, just once.

“Stop playing,” I whispered. “I’m in the mood to be colored too.”

Then I looked at her—really looked. At the way she held her breath. At the way she tried so hard not to move.

“My tattoos stay for years,” I murmured. “But whatever mark you leave? That’s the one I’ll never wash off.”