“Cyn?”

I look up at the entryway and see that Carson is standing about ten feet from me, jaw dropped and eyes bulging. Behind her, Rainey looks equally gob-smacked.

“Man, I knew getting you out was a good idea, but I never thought I’d see this happen.”

Rainey pushes past Carson, who is too busy staring at my boobs to provide any sort of intelligent commentary.

“Dude.” Rainey lets her eyes slide up and down my body. “Just . . . wow.”

I tilt her a smile. “I haven’t seen it yet, so don’t spoil it.”

“I’m done—you can look now,” Silver Lashes says.

She pulls back and gestures to a full-length mirror a few feet away. I move toward it cautiously.

Please don’t look like Lady Gaga. Please don’t look like Lady Gaga . . .

I stare at my reflection in absolute awe. I don’t look like Lady Gaga. I don’t have an animal print or lightning bolts or anything else that I’ve seen painted on passersby. Instead, there’s a base of thick green grass sweeping up from my waist and curling into long stems and leaves. Then, imbedded in the green are dozens of tiny purple blossoms. They pepper my stomach and move up and over my breasts and collarbone. The ones closest to my shoulders are lighter and more golden, like there’s actual sun shining down on me.

“What kind of flowers are those?” Carson asks. I look over my shoulder and see her staring at my reflection, too.

“They’re hyacinths,” I say quietly.

Rainey is shaking her head in amazement. I turn to face the body artist, who is already motioning for the next client to sit down.

“This is beautiful—thank you.”

She grins, then sort of shrugs. “You’ve got a great name, honey. I’m glad you like my work. Tell all your friends—I’ve got a tattoo parlor over near Roland Park. You ever need some permanent ink, you come see me.”

I nod, a little dazed. My green sweater is in my hands, and I’m not sure what to do with it now. I can’t put it on over this masterpiece. I suppose I could tie it around my waist . . .

“I’ll take that.” Carson snatches the sweater from my grip. “I don’t want you to get tempted to put it back on.”

“Can I get it back when we leave? I’d rather not prance around Baltimore topless.”

She shrugs. “We’ll see—you might decide you like your new look so much, you’re willing to show it off in other venues.”

“Doubtful,” I snort.

But I take one last, lingering look into the mirror and, I have to admit, I’m more than just happy with the results of taking this risk—I’ve never felt this comfortable being exposed. I guess it’s because I’m basically covered up in a way that makes my body seem beautiful, but not showy.

“Wow.”

I can feel Smith’s breath against my bare shoulder. When I turn toward him and look down, I almost swallow my tongue.

He’s wearing his shirt now, unbuttoned and open, and his entire chest and torso are highlighted like a Greek sculpture. The body artist played up his chiseled muscles and taut stomach, adding deep shadows to emphasize each delicious line and ripple. At the center of his sternum, there’s a symbol reminiscent of the Superman S emblem. It’s in darker tones—metallic, like iron, but also sort of smoky, with curly tendrils of barbed wire coming out from every side.

“You look amazing,” he says to me.

I blink, forcing my gaze away from Smith’s pecs (which looks delicious) and his abs (which look equally delicious) and back up to his face. He quirks a smile when my eyes meet his.

“You do, too,” I say.

I try not to blush as his gaze travels over my body.

“So, that’s one thing down.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets, and his eyes move toward the entrance to the dance floor. “You want to go check the other item off your list?”

I almost laugh out loud. Little does he know I have a completely different list than the two “assignments” he’d given me at the bar.

“Are you asking me to dance?” I say, attempting to sound coy. It must work, because Smith gives me an almost-bashful shrug.

“I guess I am. You in?”

I pretend to consider his proposition, then nod. “I’d love to.” Behind me, Carson and Rainey are debating which designs they want painted on their bodies. I tug on Carson’s sleeve and, when she looks up, I motion to Smith.

“We’re going to go dance. I’ll come find you later, okay?”

She blinks at me, then her lips slide into a slow, wide smile.

“Awesome. Have a great time.” She lowers her voice. “Text us if you end up leaving.”

I can feel her gaze—really, the gazes of everyone in that room—following Smith and me as we head out of the alcove and toward the dance floor. I mean, I can’t blame them for watching—I’ve seen his ass in those jeans and I know exactly what the other women in the room are seeing. But he’s watching only me as we approach the dance floor, which is practically pulsing beneath colored lights and overactive strobes. There are dozens of bodies in various states of undress—some painted, some not—moving to the music with a kind of abandon that I’m not sure I can muster.

“You look nervous,” he says, smiling. I shrug.

“I’m usually not a big dancer, I’m—uh—not that good at it.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

He reaches out to brush my hair over my shoulder, then lets his hand slide down the back of my arm. Goose bumps erupt in the wake of his touch, and I can’t help but marvel at how his hands feel both gentle and strong.

“It’s all about rhythm,” he says.

“Which I don’t have.”

It’s Smith’s turn to shrug. “Come on—I’ll teach you.”

I give him a skeptical look, which he effectively ignores as he pulls me toward him. Our painted chests meet and his skin feels impossibly warm against mine. At first, I don’t know where to put my hands, at least until he takes both my wrists and guides them to rest on each of his shoulders. I can feel the muscles beneath his skin tense as I press my fingers into the thin fabric of his shirt.

“This is a good start,” he murmurs.

I lick my bottom lip nervously. He’s so close that I can see a faint black ring around the blue irises of his eyes. Slowly, he moves both of his hands to my waist and turns me around so that my back is against his front. The buttons of his shirt press against my back, and the ridge of his belt hits my hip. His breath fans out over my skin in variable gusts and he takes a step forward, effectively steering me through a throng of people and onto the dance floor. Once we reach the middle, he stops me, tightening his grip to hold me in place.

“Okay, bend your knees,” he says into my ear.

I feel his cheek brush against my hair and his breath coast along my neck. I have to actively choose not to shiver from his closeness—the lack of space between us makes me want to burrow further into him.

Instead, I try to relax my legs. My knees naturally flex and I lean further back into Smith’s chest. Now his hands are resting at the place where my jeans meet my lower back, and he lets them coast along the edge of my pants and come to a stop at the snap in the front.

This is right about the time I stop breathing.

“Now, dance with me.”

His hips press against mine and begin to move me along with him. The dance beat is fast and sort of hypnotic. I close my eyes and let my body follow his lead, using his movements as a template.

As our bodies come together, I try to block out my self-consciousness. I’m worried that I’m sweating too much, that my hair’s gone flat, that my lipstick has faded and has left me looking ghostly in the black-lit surroundings. I’m worried that I can’t dance as well as Smith can, and I’m worried that I’ve had too much to drink and it could hit me any second. Most of all, I’m worried that my arousal is going to block out any measure of levelheadedness that I have left.

But after a few minutes, I manage to stop letting the worry direct my actions. Because all I can think of is how Smith’s body feels against mine. This kind of dancing feels like a wake-up call. The way our bodies brush and roll, the way our skin presses together in the sexiest way? Well, let’s just say that my liquid courage is allowing me to show Smith how much I’m enjoying it.