Inked. Anne Marsh

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СКАЧАТЬ lines cut into me so deep I feel them everywhere. His thumb rubs back and forth over the untouched, uninked part of me in soft counterpoint.

      I twist my head to glare at Brooklyn. “I blame this on you.”

      She cackles, fishing her phone out of her jacket. Instead of offering sympathy, she immortalizes me for Facebook posterity. “You said you wanted to move on. That you wanted to do something bold and brave to commemorate this particular life milestone.”

      “I said that after two dirty martinis,” I protest.

      Vik hums, leaning closer. He hurts me. Part of me wants to kick Brooklyn’s ass for talking me into this, but the rest of me just wants Vik closer and closer. To touch me more, to ease the sting his big hands create. Or maybe it’s the quiet strength in the way he holds me in place, soothing and hurting and making something beautiful out of the pain.

      Thankfully, Brooklyn provides a distraction. “Still counts.”

      “She’s an IRS auditor,” I mutter as Brooklyn flips me the bird. She’s minutes from passing out hard, her eyes already half-closed.

      Behind me, Vik snorts. “That true?”

      “Brooklyn doesn’t look like a CPA, but trust me. You should be really, really scared if she ever goes through your books. She’ll find every secret you tried to hide.”

      “You could come join me on the dark side,” she crows. “But nope. You have to hang with the investment crowd, making all that lovely money. You didn’t need the douchebag for his bank account, so I hope the man had a magic dick.”

      The needles buzz, the pain burning and melting into something fiercer as Vik works. I take a deep breath, counting through the waves of pain. I can do this.

      I want to do this.

      Vik

      “Tell me more about this magic dick.” Harper tenses as I move the needle over her skin, but a grin lights her face.

      “He was pretty,” she says. “Everywhere.”

      Blondie—Brooklyn—raises a brow. “But did he know what to do with his joystick? Because otherwise it’s just a handle to lead him around by.”

      Harper snickers. “The man could play games for hours. He always made it to the bonus level and he’s my all-time highest scorer.”

      “That’s because you hadn’t met me yet,” I tell her.

      Might be a good idea to keep my mouth shut. I consider the possibility for a handful of seconds before discarding it. Why hold back?

      “Are you aware that you have no filter?” Harper’s hands flex on the bench, opening and closing as she takes what I give her. She starts to say something else, but then winces, sucks in a breath and freezes. This is the point where some people quit, abandoning my chair, and others bitch and curse. You have to ride out the pain, find its rhythm, lose yourself in each wave. There’s a magic moment when you pop to the top, finding the crest, and you’re fucking flying in a whole other place.

      I lay another, deeper line of ink into her skin. “Why putt down the highway of life when you can ride balls-out?”

      “Do you like riding, Vik?” Harper’s voice is husky and amused, a thread of discomfort just beneath the surface. She has the strangest, sexiest effect on me. I shouldn’t want to lean down and kiss each raw line I’ve etched into her back. Lick the straight, strong line of her spine until she melts for me. She’s a client, and whatever fucked-up shit goes on in my head, it stays there.

      “Yeah,” I say roughly. “I ride. I’m a member of the Hard Riders MC.”

      “MC?” She turns her head so she can watch my face.

      “Motorcycle club.”

      “Isn’t that illegal?”

      “Depends on who you’re asking, babe. Also on what kind of business we’ve got. Most days we’re practically Boy Scouts. Even do a toy drive at Christmastime.”

      “And the other days?”

      “We take care of business.”

      I give in to temptation and run my thumb down the straight line of her spine. Woman’s got more knots in her back than that macramé shit my brother Cord learned in prison. Supposed to be therapeutic and relaxing as fuck as Cord can attest. He tied up a few strippers and taught them the finer points of bondage when he got out.

      “You need to move on.” Blondie’s words come out soft and slurred. I don’t disagree with her, and if Harper wants to forget the douche, I’m the man to help her.

      Harper winces as my needle finds a particularly sensitive spot. “How many minutes until we’re done?”

      “Sweetheart,” I say, brushing my mouth over her ear, “we’re barely started.”

      I know firsthand what the needle feels like when it bites through skin, how the pain doesn’t ever quite ease up. Shit hurts. Life hurts. But this pain is a choice and it leads to a thing of fucking beauty at the end if I do it right. My firebird slowly takes flight on Harper’s back, first the wings, and then the head. I lose myself in between the lines, drawing and coloring, pulling something from her and putting it on the outside for everyone to see.

      Harper’s quiet for long enough that I lean over to make sure she hasn’t passed out on me. Not that she’s a constant talker, but some sign of life would be good. Her eyes are closed, her lips parted when I need her to be here with me.

      “Hey. You okay?” I drag the back of my knuckles over her cheek, cursing the latex between my skin and hers.

      Her lashes lift slowly. She’s got the prettiest, softest eyes. “It hurts.”

      “Good hurt or bad hurt?”

      Her forehead gets this cute little pucker like my question doesn’t compute. “Good hurt?”

      “Yeah. The kind where the burn eats you up and you get lost in all that feeling and you just have to let go and ride it out. You feel me?”

      The crease in her forehead deepens, so I’ll have to show her. I lay down a new line of ink. She’s a squirmer. She wriggles against my bench, working her pussy into the leather like it’ll open up and give her a way out of here.

      “You chose this,” I point out. “You put your cute little ass in my chair. You can endure the pain, or you can let go and lose yourself in it. I think you might like it.”

      I drag my thumb down the outside of her spine, working against one of those knots. Investment banking doesn’t sound like a fucking picnic, and her body seems to agree with me. She lifts into my touch, the muscle beneath my fingertip loosening. Then she wiggles against the seat again.

      “If this makes you feel better, it’s a good thing,” I say roughly. The ink I’m tracing into her skin certainly is—the bright red feathers almost fly off her skin, they look so fucking real. “You deserve good things, you hear me?”

      “Yeah,” she says, so softly that СКАЧАТЬ