Passion and Ink (Sweetest Taboo)

by Naima Simone

  “I’m coming, sweetheart,” he growls the warning, his hips punching forward harder, more insistent. “Goddamn, I’m too close.”

  Last time, I pulled free of Jude, jacking him off with my hands. Never have I let a man finish in my mouth. It’s like sex without a condom. Too intimate. But now, with his cock throbbing against the roof of my mouth and my tongue, with him penetrating my throat…with him trembling with the effort to control his release for me…

  Reaching above me, I thread my fingers through his in my hair, both of us cupping my head. Holding me down. Demanding he give me his cum. Give me…him.

  “Cypress.” He groans, his body so stiff he appears on the verge of snapping in two.

  Maybe he understands what this one act means to me, because as the first splash of his seed hits my tongue, his eyes, hooded and gleaming, meet mine. They refuse to release me. Not as I swallow him down. Not as the last tremor ripples through him.

  Not as he drags me up onto his lap and crashes his mouth to mine.

  Our tongues tangle, tasting each other. Tasting us.

  With hurried, frantic hands, we stand and strip each other naked, his growl and my whimper blending, mating as we finally press bare skin to bare skin. His big body burns, and I’m singed by him. I want to be consumed by him until there’s nothing left but ash and the fragrance of sex, of us, left.

  I’m clay, there for him to mold and shape as he lies on the wide couch and settles me in front of him, curling his body around mine. He lifts my top leg and settles it over his, spreading me wide. The crinkle of foil reaches my ears, and he sheathes himself in the condom he removed from his jeans before he shoved them to the floor.

  Though I’ve been here before, I still hold my breath. Waiting. Shivering. Savoring that first thrust. The first moment of penetration. The first stretch and burn. Lifting an arm above and behind me, I wind it around his head, and he buries his face in the crook of my neck just as he plunges inside me.

  “Oh God,” I breathe, arching tight as the pleasure careens through me like lightning.

  A hard hand under my thigh and one cupping my breast holds me captive for his deep, grinding thrusts. I’m open for him, vulnerable and, though I should hate it, fight it, I don’t. Instead, I indulge in it, letting him control it and just receive. Knowing he’ll take care of me.

  And God, does he take care of me.

  His artist’s fingers toy with my nipples, tugging, tweaking, stroking. Drawing passion out of me as easily as he brings art to life on paper and skin. With each stroke, he stirs my desire higher, hotter. His dick brands my pussy, possessing it, and if I didn’t know better, shaping it so only he will ever be enough for me. Ever fill me. Ever satisfy me. And that thought both thrills and terrifies me.

  Unwinding my arm from around his head, I lower it, skimming my fingers over my chest and belly until the tips stroke over the place where we’re connected. Fire races through my veins as I circle my clit, playing with myself, shuddering under my touch and his possession. Letting Jude take all my weight, I shift and bring my other down, tracing my folds, sliding it over his cock as it drives in and out of me. We—his pre-cum and my moisture—coat my fingers, and I rub it into the skin of my lower stomach, as if I can somehow mark myself. Crazy, wild. But that’s what he does to me. Makes me want the impossible.

  “That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss under my ear that’s so at odds with the hard plunges into my body. “Get there. Get us there.”

  His fingers slide over my hip, then tangles with mine. We both strum my clit, working me in tandem. In perfect synchronicity. Pleasure, so sharp, so loud and bright, vibrates within me. Crackles along my skin like electricity over exposed nerves. My hips buck against our joined touch, but the position limits me, turning me into a willing captive to his cock, our fingers.

  “Baby,” I rasp, my voice serrated by raw lust. “Please. I need… Oh God,” I groan, shaking. “I just need.” I’m not above begging. Not when release looms so close the heat of it singes me. But it’s not nearly enough. I yearn to be incinerated by it.

  “Hold on to me,” he rumbles, and not waiting for me to comply, he cuffs my wrist and draws my arm up and winds it around his neck. “Hold on, and don’t let go.”

  I can’t tell if he’s referring to now or ever. And I don’t question it. Because, in this moment when my body is crying for what only he can give me, while my heart is a tribal drum pounding out a primal beat against my chest, my answer would be both. I don’t want to let him go now or ever.

  And that is foolish.

  Gripping his hair, I turn myself over to him completely. And as he rides me, I break, too. Crack and splinter into pieces. And even as I explode and my hoarse cry rings in my ears and head, I know, I know, what forms from those shards won’t resemble the me I’ve been for twenty-six years.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jude

  I dip the needle of the tattoo machine in the cap of black ink and step on the pedal, switching the motor on. Pressing one hand to the wide back bowed in front of me, I focus on outlining the wing of the Valkyrie I’m tatting. It’s a fierce, badass piece, one I drew specifically for Knox when he told me he was ready for some new ink and wanted me to put it on him.

  It’s not my first time tattooing my older brother. And it’s not the first time that rush of pride streaks through me like lightning. Knox is the same with art as he was in the MMA ring: one of the best. So for him to trust me with permanently marking his body, it’s not a small thing to me. It’s an honor. One I don’t take lightly.

  Besides, by concentrating on this new tat, he’s offering me the opportunity not to think about everything else in my life. Because as soon as I wipe off the last of the ink, there’s only going to be one thing just waiting to rush in and rent space. Cypress.

  Always Cypress.

  It’s been a week since that early morning visit to her mother’s apartment, and the cataclysmic joining that some idiot would call sex. The distance that sprang up between us on that Northside sidewalk never disappeared. If anything, it’s grown, deepened.

  I lift the machine, easing off the pedal, and spray his skin with tincture of green soap and water, washing off the excess ink and blood. Cocking my head, I study it. Yeah, it’s badass.

  Dipping the needle again, I turn on the machine once more and lower it toward his back.

  “Eden’s pregnant.”

  The. Fuck.

  Slowly, I shut off the tattoo gun and carefully set it down on Knox’s work station. I blindly stare at Knox’s back, frozen. Numb.

  No, that’s not exactly true. Beneath the layer of solid ice swirls a whirlpool of chaotic emotions and muddied snatches of thought.

  Shock. Because, damn, Knox and Eden are going to have a baby.

  Grief. Because I can’t think of Eden without remembering Connor. Of how for years, we all imagined her first child would be with him. Of how that can never be.

  Anger. Because the timing is off. This new phase of their relationship is brand new. Mom and Dan have basically erased Eden and Knox from their lives. This baby won’t have grandparents. He or she will come into this world carrying the baggage of a complicated history, and no way in hell can he avoid it.

  And love. God, love. It’s already spreading through me, melting the ice, beating back the fear for them. This kid might have estranged grandparents who may not be able to accept him—or her—but there will be me, Simon, Hakim, V, and Shana. And there couldn’t be a more protective father than Knox. A more caring, fierce mother than Eden.

  I’m going to be an uncle.

  “You hear me?” Knox asks, still giving his back to me. And it hits me like brass knuckles to the throat why. He’s not sure how I’ll take it. My brother—“Hard Knox” Gordon, two-time BFC heavyweight champion—is nervous about how I’ll receive the news that he’s going to have a baby with our brother’s widow.

  Rolling back on the stool, I remove my gloves, stand, and circle him
until I’m standing in front of him. And extend my hand. Lifting his head, he meets my gaze. His face is normal Knox—impenetrable, shuttered. But his eyes… They’re on fire.

  He enfolds my hand in his, but it’s me who hauls him to his feet and yanks him into a tight embrace. Automatically, his arms clinch around me and squeeze. He’s a big motherfucker, so I can’t breathe, but I don’t let go. And neither does he.

  Maybe because, in this moment, we’re both thinking of Connor. Of our laughing, funny, charismatic brother who’d been the heartbeat of our family. And how, maybe, with this baby that will belong to the older brother he adored and the woman he cherished, we can have another heartbeat.

  We can have healing.

  Laughing for no damn reason but just because, I slap Knox on the back, careful of the area I’ve already inked, and loosen my grip on him.

  “Damn, man. Congratulations. I—” Shaking my head, I laugh harder, louder. “I don’t know what to say. Have you told anyone else?”

  “No.” Knox drags his fingers over his head, almost dislodging the bun of hair only he can really pull off without it looking pussy-ish. “We just found out last night. Eden took the home test and…” He rubs his palms down the front of his thighs. “She wants to see her doctor first to verify before we announce the pregnancy to everyone.”

  “Does she know you were going to tell me?”

  He shakes his head, and I laugh again. “The hell, man? Now I’m supposed to walk around with this secret like I know nothing? Thanks a lot.” I grin, for once delighted to be the keeper of secrets.

  “I’m scared.”

  The raw honesty in the blunt statement wipes the smile from my face. I’ve never heard Knox utter those two words before. At least not to me. And I can’t imagine my big brother fearing anything.

  “What if I can’t provide for them? What if I can’t protect them? What kind of father will I be? Dad…” He pauses, briefly closing his eyes. “Dad died before he could finish teaching me how to be a man, much less a father. I’ve grown up fighting with my fists. I’m not gentle or affectionate. What if I’m not a good father to this baby? What if I’m not what he or she needs—”

  “Knowing what must be done does away with fear,” I murmur.

  Knox blinks. Stares at me. “What?”

  “Rosa Parks.” I shrug. “It’s a new hobby I’ve decided to pick up. Memorizing quotes.” Knox frowns, but before he can ask any more about why or, more accurately, who, I continue. “Knox, since Dad died, you’ve been raising us. When Mom couldn’t get out of bed, you got Simon and me up, dressed, and out to school. You made sure we ate, even got our homework done. At fifteen, you became father, brother, protector, and role model to us. If not for you…” I glance away, clenching my jaw and swallowing reflexively against the fist of emotion suddenly blocking my throat.

  “If not for you,” I continue, choosing to ignore the hoarseness in my voice, “Simon and I might not have made it through those first few months. Let’s face it, if not for you, I might not be here, in this shop, doing what I love. You showed me what and who I could be, what and who I wanted to be. And you would annihilate anyone who came at someone you love. You’d die for that woman out there. So how could you do any less for your own kid? Are you selectively mute with the communication skills of a rock? Yeah but—ouch, dammit!” I yell, grinning as I slap a hand over my arm where he slammed his big-ass fist. Sobering, I clap a hand on his shoulder. “Man, you don’t have to worry about being a good father, a good man. You already are.”

  He lowers his head, and I swear to God, if Knox cries, I’m going to lose my shit. Right here.

  But when he lifts his head, there aren’t tears on his face. Though his eyes are a bit bright. The corner of his mouth cranks up, and he arches an eyebrow.

  “I thought Simon was the sensitive one in this family,” he says. I’m choosing to ignore the thickness of his voice for both our sakes.

  I snort, moving back to the stool. “That motherfucker likes to pretend to be sensitive because he knows chicks eat that up.” I wave a hand toward the tattoo bench. “You ready?”

  But instead of resuming his position so I can continue inking him, he folds his arms across his chair and fixes that steady, unblinking scrutiny on me. The one that never fails to have me fighting not to fidget. Hell no. He’s not going to have any problems being a dad with that goddamn stare.

  “What?” I ask, snatching the top drawer in his station open and removing a new pair of black gloves.

  “You still leaving for London in a couple of weeks?”

  London. In a couple of weeks. The words reverberate off my skull, and I pay more attention than is required to fitting the gloves over my hands.

  Knox is wrong, though. I’m flying out of here for England in twelve days. The Tuesday after next. That’s when I’ll travel to the other side of the ocean and leave my family and friends behind for four months.

  Leave Cypress behind.

  Until she stormed into my life five weeks ago, I was more than ready to go. Excited about finally working where I was Jude Gordon, tattoo artist, becoming my own man. Earning a reputation based solely on my merit and not my brother’s. But now… Now, there’s a hollow pit dead center in my chest. And she dug it. Hell, she’s still shoveling deeper and deeper with every passing day. The thought of not seeing her, touching her, inhaling her scent, watching those denim-and-moonlight eyes brighten with humor or darken with hunger…

  Exhaling, I rearrange the caps of ink that don’t require rearranging.

  “Jude?”

  “Yeah,” I reply. “I’m still leaving.” Because though it hurts like acid through the veins, I still have to go. And the least reason is because I gave my word and signed a contract. No, I need to go. For myself.

  “Y’know, I get why you’re going,” Knox says.

  I stiffen, spinning around on the stool. Surely I didn’t hear what I…? “What?”

  “I said, I get why you’re going.” He cocks his head to the side, eyes narrowing. “I just don’t agree with it because I think your reason is bullshit. You’re fucking good, Jude. One of the best in this city, and arguably this industry. And I know you don’t believe it, but you’re even better than me.”

  This must be my day for him to knock me on my ass, because I’m speechless. Shock paralyzes my body, my vocal cords, and I can do nothing but stare at him.

  “True, I bought this place, and my name is out front. But when it comes to art, to tattooing, anybody who knows a damn thing about it would never say you’re in my shadow. I’m in yours.”

  “Knox,” I rasp. Because it’s still hard to speak, to comprehend what he’s saying to me.

  “But I also know that no amount of assuring you of that can make you believe it,” he continues. “Some things you have to find out on your own, and that’s what London is for you. Like I said, I get it. And I’m not mad. I’m proud of you.”

  Well, damn.

  Now it’s me ordering myself not to allow the tears stinging my eyes like a swarm of a hundred mad-as-hell bees to fall. Clearing my throat, I duck my head. The hard clasp of fingers on my shoulder steadies me, and I inhale a deep breath, holding it.

  “And when you come back—because you are coming back,” Knox growls, “the offer of the new shop is still yours. I won’t open it until you get back. The deed on the building will have both of our names on it, but the shop will be yours alone to name whatever you want, do with whatever you want. It will be your business.”

  Dammit, he got me. “You don’t have to do that,” I mutter.

  “Hell, I don’t have to do anything. But it’s what I’m doing. Yours, Jude. No one else’s.”

  Turning around on the stool and pretending to fiddle with the needle, I murmur, “Thank you.” Clearing my throat, I get myself together and face him again. “Can you sit down now, so I can finish this thing?” I jab at the bench. “If this valkyrie comes out looking like she’s been kicked in the face, I’m telling them H
akim did it.”

  Finally sitting down, Knox snorts. The vise around my chest slowly loosens as I resume tatting him, but the warmth his words left behind is probably lighting me up like a damn glowworm.

  A couple of hours later, I clean up the tattoo and snap off my gloves, proudly eying the piece. A bold, winged warrior on a horse, her black hair flying behind her, gold body armor gleaming, and wearing a fuck-with-me-if-you-want expression on her gorgeous face. Like I said. Badass.

  Knox stands after I wipe the last of the excess ink and blood away and strolls over to his mirror. Turning, he studies the tattoo over his shoulder. I wait, my gut tight like it always is after I ink him. Long moments later, he glances at me, a rare grin lifting his mouth.

  “Like I said, the best.”

  I smile back at him, so wide my cheeks pull.

  “Thanks, man,” he says, giving me his back again. Carrying gauze and tape, I wrap it for him. “So…” He walks over to his chair and snatches up his shirt. “What’re you going to do about your girl?”

  “What?” I ask, hedging, playing dumb, but this is my brother. He just arches a dark eyebrow and waits me out. Shaking my head, I remove my gloves and toss them in the garbage can. “She isn’t ‘my girl.’” Ignoring Knox’s snort, I start cleaning up the station. “And there’s nothing to do. She knows about London, and she has no plans on leaving Chicago anytime soon.” Not with her mother here and not doing well. Not with her just starting her life over. “Besides, have you forgotten the part about her being our stepsister?”

  “Really?” he scoffs. “You’re talking to the man who impregnated his brother’s widow,” he drawls.

  True that. I guess that whole taboo thing doesn’t really mean shit to Knox.

  “She’s not your blood relative. Hell, before a few weeks ago, you hadn’t even seen her in ten years. And if you try to tell me you feel nothing but…familial toward her, I’mma need to take you out back and beat the hell out of you just on principle.”