25

Bentley

We barely made it out of the elevator. By accident, my groping fingers hit the top floor, and I went with it, carrying her to the sunroom and laying her on the deep sofa. I had pulled the clip from her hair at some point, and the waves cascaded over the cushion, almost reaching the floor. The sun glinted in the strands casting a burnished gold around her head.

I crouched over her, my erection pressing into the zipper of my dress pants, painful and needy. “As much as I like my shirt on you, it needs to come off.”

She shimmied, the shirt and shawls disappearing. Her skin was pale, the only color showing was the small peek of the butterfly wing over her shoulder, and the tiny set of teardrops tattooed over her heart. Four splatters of red, each symbolizing a person she lost, she had explained when I asked her. They spoke, without words, of the sorrow she carried. She etched her heartache onto her skin, embedding the pain there forever. She kept all her tattoos private. Even her m