Isabella
Below a built-in bra that plunges down the centre of my chest, the material of the red dress hollows out in a spiral that curls around my abdomen, hips, and upper thighs where it ceases, a thin mesh material substituted for those empty spaces. It makes for a half-translucent fit, my shoulders dressed in a thin strap each and arms unclothed.
I spin around and turn my head to the mirror, studying the back while Aya crosses her arms and grins in approval of the beauteous choice of attire.
The back is bare but for the straps arising from the bra, going over my collarbone, then sinking down in two bands that meet with the lower half of the dress where the sheer nature would expose the majority of my behind if not for the thick polyester wind of material striping across it. It's the physical form of indecency constructed into a fit that raises my breasts and flaunts my body―and I'm delighted by it.
Delighted at the tattoos, too, as is Aya. But she still rebuked me for the rash decision and how this new permanent rose staining each of my shoulders and the stems sweeping up from my fingers to wrists are things I can't simply take back. Unless, of course, I'd like to endure double the amount of pain and have them lasered off.
A few hours after getting the patch of garden tatted on my skin, I finally decided to peel off the protective layer Ethan had applied then sterilized it. From the way Andreas had adhered himself to me the first hour after getting it done, staring and touching and comparing mine to his, I knew he wanted to be there when I did. But I've been in Aya's room ever since I managed to rip him from my side, and the only suggestion that he wants to barge in and continue his inspection is the occasional visit he takes to the door to ask how I'm going.
It always ends up in unkind words spewing out of my mouth after I tell him to stop returning and he refuses.
The fresh coat of pigment is blushed at the edges, reddened following the constant insertion of needles from the previous hours. If someone were to come close enough, they'd be able to tell that the tattoo is fresh. And with its prominence, I know standing next to Andreas and the complete dark-greenish painting on him will leave no doubt that we're...together.
But that pain—that prickly, burning sensation—will forever be engraved in my memory. And whether I want to withstand that torture again will be considered, because I wouldn't mind having the complete tattoo.
I turn away from the view of my fabulous red dress and face Aya. Her royal blue fit is almost on the same level of exposure as mine, and paired with golden bands adorning her fingers which match the bracelets dangling from her wrists, the colour combination is gorgeous. The dress wraps around a curvy waist and plump hips, enclosing her body down to the thighs. The uppermost portion of it has similar styling to my own, with a neckline that's also cut to reveal a chest.
"You know," Aya starts, "like, usually, when people get given choices in life, they consider them. They don't say yes or no immediately. Because they have some kind of a rational mind unlike other people such as you, girl. I can't believe you sometimes." She straightens a bunch of her hair by a small mirror at her vanity, squinting at it as she continues. "You didn't even consider the decision. After this, when you let it sink in, look at the tattoos throughly, reality will crash down on you all at once. What if you regret it?"
I move to the long mirror and fluff up the front strands of my hair, trying to loosen the waves. "I won't. I might want another one."
From the reflection, I see her momentarily pause halfway through taking her hair between the straightener. She breathes out. "Honestly, I might scold you if I find a new section of that nature shit on you in the future. And then I'd tell you how good it looks after I've eased my temper."
"You're an ass."
"A fat ass, I am." She sways her hips side to side for emphasis.
"If I admit it, then can you do a favour for me?"
"Hmm."
"You have a fat, juicy ass, Aya. Can you get my phone from Andreas' room?"
"No." She continues with her hair.
"What―"
"Girl, we're leaving in an hour. You'll have to see him eventually; might as well get it over with now. And anyway...from what happened the last time you dressed up, you might need some play time before we leave."
"I hate you." I aim for the hallway.
"Drink off your anger tonight."
Shutting the door behind me, and hearing an infuriating laugh from inside, I walk through the corridor, careful not to be too loud with these unbelievably high heels. They're matching to the colour of my dress, crossing over and wrapping up my leg where they reach below my knees. Slightly difficult to move with, but the lovely appearance is worth struggling through them.
I stand by Andreas' door, feeling the rhythm of my heart alter with my fretful state of mind. My fingers curl around the handle, my body unmoving, indecision binding my feet to the floor.
There's a fray unleashed in my mind, a battle between two sides―one that wants to throw open the door and swagger in, and the other which strives towards an easy approach where all I need to do is turn back and wait until he realizes I've forgotten my phone and then returns it to me.
But I shut down my hesitance, going through with the first option. And meet him midway of dressing.
It's instinct to look down at my shoulders and hands when I see his own tattoos on his bare upper body—because I have a portion of that on me, and the reminder of wearing that beauty...it doesn't help squash the urge to have this be the last time I get a tattoo.
He tosses his jumper onto the bed—only for it to slip off the edge. His attention is wholly on me; he's concentrated on my body, what I've dressed it in, how I'm reacting to his nearness.
"My phone is on your dresser. I'll grab it and leave." An unsteady part of me eases when he doesn't disrupt my anxious journey to the dresser―but then goes back to a panic when I find my phone isn't there.
I clench my fists at my sides, and don't turn around when I demand, "Andreas, give me my phone."
I hear a movement on the bed, like he just snatched it from his blanket.
"Come get it you ripe bowl of deliciousness."
If only I had giant muscles to wield against him. But I don't, so all I can do is slowly turn around and glower at his annoyingly charming smirk.
"Give." My phone is held between his thumb and forefinger.
"No."
"Gosh, you are so, so, so irritating." In any other scenario, I'd assume stomping over to him would end up in his arms darting through the air as I furiously try to grab my phone from his hand. But now, as I finally reach him and his half naked body, he tosses the device towards the headboard, seizes my biceps, and spins me around. Then smashes me into the bed.
"You―" I try to shake him off without laughing. He's pinning me to the bed. "My hair! You're going to ruin my―"
"You look how I'd expected―like a strawberry princess. How must I keep off you tonight, huh? How am...how am I meant to stop people from looking at you?" He considers with his attention glued to a random space in the room, dismissing my pointless thrash below him. He seems to snap out of his silence once I give up. He slowly gets off me, eyes moving up and down my dress.
An uneasy feeling spirals inside me as I stand and glance at my heels. "I...I'm going to go change my shoes."
"Why?" He frowns.
I look down―and to those same enormous blocks beneath my soles. "I'm too tall next to you."
"Sorry?" He clutches my wrists before I can leave. "If it were up to me, I'd put you in heels double the size. You're what, five-ten, five-eleven?" I nod my head. "Drink a little milk, baby. You're going to need a lot more inches until your height can surpass mine."
He pulls my wrists until our chests collide, and I feel his hot skin through the transparency of my dress. He holds tight on my lower back, one hand rubbing up and down.
"Stay in our room," he whispers. "Please."
"I don't want to be in your―"
"Our," he corrects. "Let me look at you for a little while longer."
"You..." His solid chest is hot against my palms. "You need to get dressed."
His lashes flutter, mouth curving to form the slightest grin, hands paused at my lower back. The look he's giving me...I don't know if he's comprehended what I said. Not until he finally responds and breaks out of that inspection of his. "Of course."
Then he's walking into the bathroom, and I hear the sound of cotton or some other material rubbing together as he dresses himself.
I sigh and scan the blanket, finding my phone leaning on the slope of a pillow. I round the bed to snatch it and set it on the bedside as I repose on the spot where he usually sleeps. On the left. Careful not to smudge my makeup, I slightly shift my head to the side and breathe in the creamy, woody scent of his pillow.
The Revel, it's called. A yearly party held at the dwelling of a wealthy thirty-year old man who lives atop a flat hill with the grand houses of other men who also have wallets brimming with cash.
When I walked from outside the lavish front garden and into the splendour of this house after I and Aya's straining journey through the mall, I couldn't help but think whether Andreas would be able to afford a residence like that. Because he's the partial owner and boss of his business, and downstairs...it's a space decked in white and gold, dissimilar to the grey exterior of the house. And to the dark fashioning of Andreas' room and bright, cheery nature of Aya's.
I haven't really been in Seb or Blake's rooms, just took tiny peeks, or the spare bedrooms—Andreas has made sure I stay away from them, either because of the fear that I somehow get them dirty or end up liking one enough to move into it. Everything else up here, it's a gloomier version of the lower level. Like the untouched living room of fabric grey couches at the end of the corridor.
Right as I rise from the bed, Andreas appears from the bathroom in an outfit the same colour as mine.
"You look..." I'm unconsciously moving towards him as I balk at his attire. Per usual, he's donned a blouse that's tucked into pants, but this time, it's of a silky red fabric―and split at the top.
His chest, toned and embellished with that decorative sequence of tattooed greenery, is bare between the unfastened buttons, a lure on its own that tempts me to slide my hand over the solid build. The crimson jeans are darker than the blouse, and the buckle of his belt is silver, matching with the lustrous rings ornamenting his fingers.
Standing before him, I barely manage to tear my gaze away long enough to meet his charismatic smile and eyes. My fingertips touch the short hairs that've grown along his jaw, and it's his invitation to gather my waist in his arms and pull me closer.
"You look handsome."
"So do you." He kisses my temple.
"Don't call me handsome." I stop playing with his beard and slip my palms beneath his opened blouse, onto the stiffness of his chest.
"Why not?"
"Because―"
"You look beautiful, baby. Keep groping my chest." Of course he had to ruin the moment and make an inane comment. I push off him with a sigh and move over to the corner of the room where I stand by the long mirror framed in blackwood.
Just as I begin patting down my dress, he follows behind me and takes his palms over the top of my own, our fingers curling together.
"What do you want?" I roll my eyes at him through the mirror, even if I want to return the smile that's undoing my peaceful exterior.
He folds our hands over my stomach. "Nothing else."
One heavy glance at ourselves then I'm gasping. Our colours clash in a breath-taking display of our pressed bodies. Red on red; tattoos by tattoos.
The back of my head rests on his shoulder as I look up and meet his stare. "This is why you asked me what colour I was going to wear."
So we look made for each other. A prince and a princess. He doesn't say anything. My fake boyfriend pushes his grin on to my mouth and eliminates the space between us.