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“Was that a tattoo I saw on your back?” He asked. “None of your business.” “I just didn’t peg you for the tramp stamp type.” “It’s not a tramp stamp. It’s my F-holes,” I corrected. His eyes had widened before he let out a long, deep laugh. “Jesus, Henley.” “For a violin, you A-hole.” I turned around, raising my shirt high enough on my lower back to reveal two curved lines on either side of my spine. I jumped when the pad of his finger ran over the design leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. “Wow,” he mumbled, and I turned back around to face him, letting the hem of my shirt fall from my hands. “What? You think it’s stupid.” “No… no. I think that’s the sexiest tattoo I’ve ever seen. How often does someone get to finger your strings?” — Teresa Mummert