Chased by Piper Lawson Page A

“What’s on my body is none of your business. Do you have tattoos?”
    “Yeah.”
    She tilts her chin up. “Then why are you being such a judgemental jerk?”
    Which just makes it worse. “Because I am a jerk. I told you that from the start,” I grunt out.
    “But you’re not, Chase.” Ariel stares into me like she can make me how she sees me. “You’re not.”
    I know I’m being unreasonable, but I can’t take it anymore. I grab the hem of her shirt and tug it up to the top of her flat abs, searching with my eyes. Then I spin her around and do the same at her back.
    “Chase! What the hell are you doing?”
    I ignore her. Nothing there. Just perfect damn skin.
    My finger skims the top of her skirt, hooking in the top, tugging it down an inch and running it across her back. Lots of girls have tattoos on their lower back, I just hadn’t pegged her for one. And she isn’t, I realize after inspecting her.
    I turn her back to face me, expecting her to call me out. To shove me away. Both are more than justified. Because the truth is I’m nearly stripping her without a single word of explanation.
    But she doesn’t.
    Her gray blue eyes are wide and wild on mine. The rest of her is still.
    I haven’t been this close to her since the party, when I leaned in and smelled her. Now she’s all around me again and I can’t get out. I’m struggling, trying to swim but fuck me, I’m drowning.
    “You won’t find anything. Not there,” she whispers. I can feel her heart hammering and I know it’s me that made it do that.
    I drop my head back so my eyes meet the ceiling. And I groan. “You shouldn’t have told me that, Ariel. Now I’m going to be wondering… Shit .” I look back at her and I wonder if she can see my soul. See the war I’m waging against myself.
    I’ve got her wedged against the counter and her hands are braced against it. She’s looking up at me with those big eyes but she’s not afraid anymore.
    Maybe she should be.
    Her voice is braver when she speaks again. “Chase, you said once that skin’s just skin. Well, ink is just ink. Show me yours and I’ll show you mine,” she challenges softly.
    “Done,” I say without thinking. I pull my shirt over my head before either of us can catch up to the bad idea we just created together.
    When I drop the tank to the floor, her eyes are on me. Taking in my chest, my shoulders, my abs.
    And it’s hot . Like I can feel her touch me with her hands. Her mouth.
    She zeroes in on the tattoos. Small, like hers. Black lines over my left pec, each identical to the next, no more than an inch long. Every fifth line crosses diagonally over the four like it’s counting.
    “What are they?” Ariel asks. She traces her finger over the lines and I suck in a breath. It seems innocent, I practically asked her to do it. But now her fingers are on my heart and I’m afraid she can feel it stutter.
    “They’re wins,” I say roughly. “One for every race.”
    “Why?”
    “Bragging rights.”
    Her eyes cut to me and I know she sees through it. Sees through me.
    “Fine,” I concede. “They remind me of the times I ran fast enough.” She looks back to the marks, counting quietly.
    “Do you have any—” she moves around to my back and I grab her, keep her in place.
    “Don’t.”
    She’s quick and today I’m slow, uncoordinated and drunk on her, and she ducks under my arms. 
    Sees the white lines across my shoulders. Old scars, faded.
    I never look at them but know they’re there. Dozens.
    “Chase—what are hell are these?” Her voice is low.
    I swallow, my gaze falling to the floor for a moment. Old shame. My mind flashes back, I can’t help it, and my muscles tighten on instinct. I force my chin up. “They’re from the times I didn’t run fast enough.”
    “I didn’t know it was that bad,” she murmurs.
    “It was a long time ago.”
    But her finger strokes the marks, and I don’t feel the marks anymore. Just feel her, touching me. My muscles