I stare at the little black silhouette of a cat on my right wrist.

I’ve gone through a whole slew of emotions related to this tiny tattoo, and it’s not even two inches across.

When I first got it, I loved it. Even though the design was cutesy, I thought the inherent bad-ass quality of being tattooed would give me a little street cred before I went to college.

It also reminded me of a particularly naughty night when I’d had my first one-night stand. With a tattoo artist, no less.

Somehow, a little bit of ink made me feel powerful, like I was in control. It felt pretty bad-ass for a while.

Until my brother, in his usual non-confrontative way, gave me a little lesson.

“Peter, are you seriously doing this?” I asked incredulously. “This is so uncool.”

“If you think being uncool is a deterrent for me . . . think again.” Peter chuckled like he was a villain in a superhero movie. He didn't even slow his pace as he headed straight for the tattoo parlor where I’d gotten inked the previous week.

“You can't do this,” I protested as I scampered past the colorful display window of a toy shop to catch up to him.

“I’m going to repeat to you what my very grown-up sister told me this morning: ‘I’m an adult, and you can't tell me what to do.’”

Okay, maybe I’d been feeling smothered by Peter’s overprotective ways. He was doing a great job at being both my mom and my dad, but what can I say? I was technically an adult, but as an eighteen-year-old, I was still technically a teenager, too.

I laughed nervously. “That seems like a rather . . . black-and-white way of looking at things, don't you think?” I asked in a desperate attempt to sway his mind, even though I knew I wasn't going to. “There's room for compromise between adults, isn't there?”

“Nope,” Peter cackled. “You're new to this whole adulting thing so let me tell you something: everyone around you can do whatever they want, and there's nothing you can do about it.”

“I agree completely,” I said quickly. “Lesson learned.” I put my hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Great parenting, Peter. Well done. Let's go home now.”

Peter stopped in his tracks—had I touched a nerve?

He stared at me quietly for a few anxious seconds before he burst into laughter.

Yeah, probably not.

“This is the single highest point of my experience raising you in the past five years,” Peter said. “This is happening.”

When we entered the tattoo parlor, Luca raised a questioning eyebrow at me. To Peter, he asked, “She’s eighteen, right? I checked her ID.”

As far as I knew, he’d never talked to my brother before. But Ashbourne was a small town, and everybody knew of everybody else’s existence.

“Yeah, I’m not here to cause any trouble,” Peter said. “I just like your work, and I want the exact same tattoo you gave my sister, in the exact same spot.”

Luca’s stare flicked between Peter and me until he finally chuckled. Shaking his head, he said, “Sure.”

And so, for the next half hour, I had to sit there and watch as Luca inked Peter. There was only one tattoo table in the shop—the one Peter was sitting on was the same one I’d gotten fucked on.

My brother had crazy ideas. But I’ll have to admit this particular one worked.

Before he got a matching tattoo, I wanted to get a full sleeve or even a massive, yakuza-style piece on my entire back.

After? Just hearing the whirr of a tattoo gun reminded me of his stunt and . . . I mean, I didn’t want him to also match my magnificent back piece and make me hate it.

So yes, I swore off tattoos forever. I even swore off the sexy artist who’d inked me.

Peter stole both from me, but it wasn’t like I was angry at him. I was glad he’d found a friend right before I had to leave for college, and I didn’t want to ruin it for him. Since Dad’s death, Peter had sacrificed so much for me already.

Besides, it wasn’t like I was dying for another round with Luca. Yes, I liked him, but I was also leaving town for college soon. I’d told him it was just going to be a one-time thing.

At that age, though, I could’ve been persuaded to do it again, especially by someone as hot as Luca.

But now, I’m more careful. Methodical.

I don’t ever sleep with a guy more than once, and I make sure he’s not related to anyone I know. Just finding a stranger in this town would be a challenge, but there are always drifters passing through, and I’m willing to travel for the right guy.

I get up from the couch and straighten my legs. Walking across the living room, I draw the curtain aside and peer through the window.

There’s a lone form right outside. My heart skips a beat—could that be one of the junkies Luca mentioned today?

Peter never mentioned any trouble with drug users. But then again, he also insisted he was fine and told me not to come home because he was “just a little sick.”

Liar.

I lean forward until my forehead sticks against the glass, letting my shadow cover the faint reflection of my living room.

It’s Luca.

He still likes to run shirtless, I see.

He has his back to me, which means I can gawk at him to my heart’s content.

Luca treats his skin like a canvas, covering it with black, green, and red ink. He once told me every single piece was etched into his flesh either by a close friend, or by a famous tattoo artist at one of the conventions he frequented.

His tattoos seem to dance under the yellow street lights now, rippling as his body strains to maintain his steady, controlled pace.

I remember doing just this when I was a young, impressionable teenager. I’d run to the window at the sound of heavy sneakers pounding the pavement outside. On my luckier days, I’d see Luca outside, his upper body bared for me to see.

Not for the first time, I praise the god who sculpted that body into life. I’m not religious, but damn . . .  the strong lines of his body, the ropes of muscles underneath his skin, the curve of his ass . . . Luca could convert a girl into a believer.

I lick my lips, wishing I could lick the salty sweat off his skin instead.

I don’t need to see him from the front to know he still has those glorious six-pack abs on that lean body. And I know his sweatpants hang low enough to expose the V-shaped ridge stretching from his hips down to his bulge, which no doubt is also outlined by the soft fabric.

I imagine myself on my knees, rubbing my face against his package, my cheek brushing over the soft cotton that covers the hot, hard man meat underneath. I’d worship that cock and let him toss me around, do whatever he wants to me, use whichever hole he wants.

Except, Luca’s off-limits.

Yes, my brother’s gone now, and there’s no friendship for me to potentially wreck. But, I don’t need any complications. And I don’t want him to feel like he has to step in and be Peter’s replacement, now that I’m on my own.

If it’s a warm body I need, I can get it elsewhere. I’ve just been so busy making funeral arrangements I haven’t had a chance to try.

I was planning to spend the night researching how security systems work and which companies to call in the morning, but the tingling between my legs demands my attention right now.

The past few days—no, weeks—have been rough. And I need some release.

I can’t get that from Luca. I have very . . .  particular tastes now.

No matter how hot it was when Luca screwed eighteen-year-old me, that wouldn’t be enough to scratch this itch.

No, I need something darker. Something more dangerous. I need a bigger thrill to satisfy this craving.

I watch Luca until he disappears into the darkness. I think he might’ve turned his head around to look at me at some point, but that’s probably just my imagination.

Letting the curtain close, I walk back to the couch and make myself comfortable, sprawling back and pulling my legs up onto the cushion.

The browser on my phone displays the Google search results for “veterinary security.” That can wait.

I open a new tab and start to type the URL. As soon as I enter the letter “k,” a bunch of drop-down options appear at the top of the screen. I tap on the top one, and a familiar page loads.

As I write my post, dark desires fill my chest thickly, almost choking me with their intensity. It only makes me hope someone will choke me for real. Just thinking about it makes my core clench. I can feel wetness leaking out of me, pooling in my panties.

I smirk as I click the “submit” button—normal verbiage for websites these days, but it takes on a new meaning here.

A chill runs down my arms.

It’s been so long since I indulged. I’ve actually been clean for a couple of years now, but I guess I don’t have what it takes to deal with my brother’s death and also keep my addiction under control.

Based on past experience, it shouldn’t take long now until I get a response from someone.

I’m not choosy. Anyone will do, as long as he’s willing to act out my fantasy.