CHAPTER 53: NO TATTOOS?

Julian’s POV

"Stop moving," she continued to say, even after I carried her into her room and laid her on the bed.

Before I could ask what she meant, both her hands clamped around my head hard.

I froze. "Catherine, what the hell..."

"You head keeps spinning," she repeated, her voice all slurry and serious. "You’re stressing my eyes."

I almost laughed. "That’s your own head spinning, wildcat. Not mine."

Her fingers tightened, and I winced. "Let go, you’re hurting me."

"No," she said flatly. "You always tell me what to do. Tonight, I’m in charge."

God. How could she be this impossible even when drunk?

"Catherine," I said again, prying at her wrists. "Let go of my head."

Her grip didn’t budge. Her face was right in front of mine, eyes half-lidded and unfocused, but that stubborn glint that always made me lose patience was there.

"Wildcat," I muttered, because somehow that name always fit.

Her brows drew together. "Don’t call me that."

That made me laugh. "You just grabbed my head like you’re exorcising a demon, and you don’t want me to call you wildcat?"

"Moron. I hate you."

"Sure, you do."

Her lip curled. "You’re so annoying. Always trying to make me feel like shit with that stupid smirk of yours, so infuriating."

"Which smirk?" I teased, trying to hold back another laugh.

"That one!" she pointed right at my mouth, so close her finger brushed my lower lip. "That one that makes girls lose their minds. I don’t get it. You’re not even that hot."

I bit the inside of my cheek to stop from laughing. "You’ve been staring at me for the past five minutes, so that’s a bold statement."

"I’m staring because your face keeps moving," she muttered.

"Right. My face."

She groaned and slumped back on the bed, her eyes fluttering shut. Her hair was a mess around her head, one strand stuck to her cheek. I reached out automatically and brushed it aside, then caught myself.

She cracked one eye open. "Why don’t you have tattoos."

Huh? That was so sudden, I mean... the question came out of nowhere. "What?"

"Bad boys always have tattoos," she said like it was the law. "You’re the first bad boy I’ve seen with none."

I almost laughed again. "How many bad boys have you seen to know that?"

"A lot."

Something unpleasant twisted in my chest. It felt like jealousy. Where did she meet a lot of bad boys? What did she do with them?

Ugh! Why the hell was I thinking this way?!

"Define ’a lot.’"

Her brows furrowed as she thought hard about it. "There’s Damon Salvatore, Jax Teller, Ares from Through my window and that guy from After—"

I stared at her for two full seconds before the laugh tore out of me.

She blinked up at me, with a confused stare. "What’s funny?"

"Your bad boys are fictional."

"Doesn’t change anything. They’re still bad and they all have tattoos."

"Right," I said, still laughing. "So now I’m competing with TV characters."

She looked very serious for someone who was drunk out of her mind. "Competing? Nah, you already lost."

"I didn’t."

She smiled then, this lazy, tipsy smile that didn’t belong on someone as innocent-looking as her. "So why don’t you have a tattoo?"

I shrugged, leaning back on the bedframe. "Nothing. I never really found anything worth marking permanently on my body. My mom’s name could have been perfect but I’m mad at her, so no."

Her gaze lifted to meet mine, it was too steady. "Maybe you should draw my name."

The way she said it made me gasp.

Her voice wasn’t teasing anymore. It was soft, slow, deliberate and her eyes... they locked on mine like she’d just said something sacred instead of stupidly reckless.

I froze. My throat felt tight and my brain blank.

She was still staring and then her gaze dipped to my mouth.

I should’ve looked away. I should’ve said something sharp to cut the tension but I didn’t. I just sat there, staring right back, until she burst out laughing.

"Oh my goodness," she gasped between giggles, "don’t tell me you were actually thinking about it! Besides, even if you do, I know you would use that stupid wildcat name instead."

I exhaled through a shaky laugh, rubbing a hand over my face. "I was just imagining your reaction if I actually did it."

"You should," she teased. "Then everyone will know you belong to me."

That made something warm flicker low in my stomach and I hated it. "You’re way too drunk, by tomorrow you will regret all the nonsense you said."

"You’re boring."

"Go to sleep."

"No!" she said immediately, sitting up again. "Confess. You must have a tattoo that’s hidden."

I shook my head. "I don’t."

She narrowed her eyes. "You drew it somewhere no one can see."

"Catherine."

"Maybe..." She tilted her head, her eyes widening in mischief. "On your butt."

I choked on a laugh. "You’re insane."

Her grin widened. "You totally did."

"Stop."

"Show me."

"Catherine."

She lunged forward. I barely had time to react before her fingers were at my shirt, tugging it up.

"Jeez— stop!" I grabbed her wrists, trying not to laugh and lose control at the same time.

"Where is it?" she demanded, half laughing, half dead serious.

"I told you I don’t have one!"

"Liar."

"Fine," I said dryly. "It’s on my forehead."

She frowned, eyes narrowing in confusion. "I don’t see—"

"Because it doesn’t exist," I finished with a grin.

That didn’t stop her. She wriggled in my grip, determined, her hands catching the hem of my shirt again. "Let me check."

I caught both her wrists in one hand and pushed her back gently, but she kept fighting.

"Catherine," my voice suddenly became low.

"No!" she laughed, struggling. "Let me see your butt.."

She twisted, and I lost my balance for half a second, falling forward until I had her pinned against the bed.

Her laughter died instantly and everything stilled.

I could feel the rise and fall of her chest against mine, the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her shirt. My hands were braced on either side of her, my breath tangled with hers.

"See what you did?" I murmured.

Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

Her hands were still caught beneath mine, her fingers curling unconsciously around my wrists.

I should’ve moved but no, I stayed there, staring down at her, caught in that unbearable pull that never seemed to stop.

"Julian," she whispered.

My name on her lips did something dangerous to me.

"Yeah?"

She swallowed, eyes hazy. "You really don’t have one?"

I huffed out a small laugh, voice rough. "No tattoo, wildcat. You’ll have to believe me."

Her mouth twitched. "You called me wildcat again."

"I did."

She smiled faintly. "I still hate it."

"I know."

For a second, neither of us moved. The only sound was her shallow breathing and the faint thump of music still playing downstairs.

Her gaze dropped to my mouth again, and my pulse spiked.

I should’ve moved. Hell, I didn’t.

Until she began to cough. I knew what was about to come but before I could avoid it, she threw up all over my face.