Inked. Anne Marsh

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      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 I almost don’t hear her. “I do.”

      Blondie’s head hits the window with an audible thunk. I can’t tell if she’s passed out or fallen asleep, but girlfriend looks painfully uncomfortable.

      “Give me a moment.” I set my equipment down and strip off my gloves. “Sleeping Beauty needs an assist.”

      “Sleeping Beauty?” Harper twists her head and takes in her friend sprawled half on, half off the window seat. Not my circus, not my fucking monkeys, but she’s here with Harper.

      I brush my hands down my thighs. “You need a chaperone?”

      Harper outright laughs. “Are you planning on hiding Brooklyn’s body?”

      “Nah.” I shake my head and cross the room to Blondie. Harper watches like she can’t quite figure me out as I scoop her friend up in my arms. “I’m offering relocation services. Think she’d be more comfortable on the couch.”

      I take her out front and set her down on the leather couch. Gia never looks up from whatever game she’s playing on her phone. The room’s chilly from the air-conditioning that ran for most of the day so I shrug out of my leather jacket and drop it over Harper’s friend. The nipples poking the front of her sequined tank top advertise loud and proud that the woman’s cold. It may be August in Vegas but it’s also two in the morning. The sun’s not up, and I don’t need her to fucking freeze to death—or wake up—before I’m done with Harper.

      When I go back into my studio, Harper gives me a smile. The sight of her bent over my bench, waiting for me to put my hands back on her, makes me hard, but then everything about this woman gets me going.

      “You’re a nice guy.” She sounds surprised. Not sure why everyone seems to think bikers do nothing but kill shit. We’ve got other hobbies and mayhem’s just one of my many talents.

      “Everybody loves me.” I wink at her reflection in Ink Me’s windows. “So what does an investment banker do all day, Harper darling?”

      “I make other people money.”

      “Are you good at what you do?” Harper doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who’d settle for half-assing anything in life.

      “I’m the best.” A small, self-satisfied smile licks up the corners of her mouth. I’ll bet she goddamned is the best. I know better but I press my fingers a little harder against her skin, spreading them so I can feel the little shivers as the needle bites into her skin and then the moment when she relaxes. She’d feel like that when I was deep inside her, too, making her come.

      “Me, too.” Either you rock your shit, or you don’t, and I’m the best goddamned tattoo artist in Vegas. I already know that tonight’s ink is my best ever. My firebird looks ready to streak into the sky—or curl up and dig in because it’s hard to imagine a sweeter spot than the curve of Harper’s back.

      “This is the hard part,” I warn.

      Sure enough, when I start shading the feathers, she tries to hold it all in but a groan escapes her mouth.

      “You don’t have to pretend for me,” I tell her. Mean it, too. “You do whatever you fucking feel like doing.”

      She nods—and then she reaches down, feeling for me with her hand. The fuck? My dick may be hoping for a hand job, but instead her fingers find my thigh and pinch. Fucking hard, too. She can’t get a good purchase on me thanks to my jeans and my being built like a medieval Viking, all hard and no soft.

      Christ, she’s amazing.

      Still, she needs to understand that she doesn’t get to be the one in charge here. “Do that again and I’ll spank your ass.”

      Not the smartest thing I could say, seeing as how it doesn’t just cross the line of what’s appropriate and what’s not. More like my words blow the goddamned line up and bury it in a mountain of TNT.

      “You said I could do whatever I wanted.” Did she just blush? Been a long time since I’ve been with a woman who got embarrassed.

      “Sure thing.” I draw her hand up by her head and pin it there lightly. “But if you make me jump, sweetheart, you’re gonna end up with a mutant firebird. This next part hurts the worst.”

      “How long?” I can hear the tears in her voice. Fucking sucks. Harper’s made for smiles, not crying.

      “Not long. Be good and I’ll kiss it better.”

      “Be specific.”

      I’ve got a lot of bare skin to fill in. This won’t be quick or easy. “Forty minutes.”

      “Are you shitting me?” She shifts and I back off.

      “Kisses,” I remind her. “I’ll make everything feel better if you hang in here.”

      “You’ve got magic kisses?” That’s her drunk talking, laughter blurring the edges of her words and pushing away the tears.

      “You can find out.”

      “I already know how you kiss,” she announces, that cute pink blush getting deeper. “We’ve met before.”

      Shit. I rack my brain trying to remember her. Women come and go in my life. Pretty sure I wouldn’t have fucked Harper and forgotten her, though, so maybe she’s just messing with me. Fair enough, seeing as how I’m planning on getting her out of those cute little panties just as soon as I can.

      “That so? We’ve shared adult naptime? Done the bedroom rodeo?” I start in on the skin over her spine.

      “It doesn’t matter.” She shrugs like whatever memories she’s got are NBFD—no big fucking deal—and I tap her ass.

      “Freeze,” I remind her. “Or you’ll make me color outside the lines. And while you’re holding that thought, give me details about what we did together.”

      “Nope.” Now I get the smile I wanted earlier, a big, wicked grin that lights up her entire face.

      “A hint,” I suggest.

      “We СКАЧАТЬ