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“Oh dear, I think I have some club soda in the back. Come with me before that stain sets in,” the caterer said as she bolted for the back.

Carmela followed, grateful for the break.

“I’m sorry I don’t have a public bathroom,” the woman said as she handed Carmela an apron. “But you can use this.

Take o your shirt and sprinkle some salt and then club soda. I promise it will keep that lovely fabric from staining.”

If Carmela wasn’t so against wasting money, she would have insisted it wasn’t worth the trouble. But it was a new shirt and she didn’t want to trash it.

“Quickly now, so it doesn’t set in,” the caterer urged as she left Carmela standing in front of a sink in the kitchen with no door or place for privacy.

Slipping o the blouse and tying the apron around her body as quickly as possible, Carmela felt more than a little exposed. She got to working on the bright red splotch as fast as she could.

“You have a tramp stamp? No way!” Rhiannon shrieked from behind.

Carmela’s skin flushed with heat. “What are you doing back here?” she demanded, turning around to block her shame from view.

“The lady said you were decent! I wasn’t trying to be a creep,” she replied, laughing. “Come on, let me see it.”

“No!” Carmela moved away, wet shirt in hand and horror on her face.

“Come on! The part I could see looked hot!”

Carmela’s eyes widened so much she was sure they’d pop out of her skull. “What the hell is the matter with you?”

Rhiannon was undeterred. “I’ve always wanted a tat, but I’m not a fan of needles. Did it hurt?”

Her insistence was unbelievable. Carmela stumbled backward to keep distance between them. “Of course it hurt,” Carmela snapped, the wet shirt dripping onto her shoes.

Rhiannon made a sad puppy face at her, frown and all.

“Come on, Carm. Let me see. It’s just skin.”

Carmela hesitated. She wasn’t ashamed of her body exactly, but despite yoga and her best e orts, things weren’t

as high and tight as they had once been.

“From what I saw, it looks really nice! What is it?”

Rhiannon wasn’t dropping the subject.

If Carmela could disappear into the ether, she would. But as Rhiannon continued toward her, closing the gap, she remained frozen. Her hands were so soft as they gripped her hips, Carmela’s eyes slipped closed of their own accord.

“Can I see?” Rhiannon whispered, her breath warm against Carmela’s cheek.

The sensation ignited long dormant nerve-endings along the curve of her neck. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t breathe. All she could do was exist in that moment as Rhiannon pressed their bodies closer.

Carmela nodded and allowed herself to be turned. The open palm Rhiannon left splayed across her lower belly sent a blast of transdermal heat coursing through her body. She had

n’t realized how starved she was for this kind of touch.

Reason fled her mind as her body ached for more.

“A manta ray,” Rhiannon whispered. The fingertips of the hand not holding her close traced the symbol of the creature swimming on her lower back. She followed the outstretched fins, leaving a trail of goosebumps in her wake. “It’s really beautiful.”

If Carmela could speak, she’d explain she got it when she was young and lost, when she was looking for a symbol to hold onto and keep her moving forward. But she couldn’t tell her why she’d needed protection. All coherent thought had evacuated her body and deferred to the agonizing lust demanding control.

Expanding her exploration into non-tattooed areas, Rhiannon’s fingertips blazed a trail up her spine. Each purposeful touch was a searing thing that left Carmela breathless as her heart pounded its way up her throat as if trying to escape the intensity of the moment.