by Lauren Dane
“Decent work. I can touch it up here.” Her fingertips brushed a spot of sensitive skin.
“Does it need that?”
“Only if you want it to look nice.”
He turned his head and she was so very close. A quick movement and his hand cupped the back of her neck as he took that mouth of hers in a kiss. Hard and fast.
Her taste rushed through his system like wildfire as she opened to him. Her tongue slid along his as he claimed, took, demanded.
She kissed like she meant it. Matching him move for move. He’d kissed women before. But this woman knew what she was about. Took her time, tasting him. A nip of his bottom lip sent a shiver through him. He hauled her close, the sweetness of her curves against him. He was hard. So fucking hard.
All from a kiss.
When he got this woman naked they were going to set shit on fire.
He eased back, taking her bottom lip between his teeth a moment. “That was as good as I imagined.”
Her smile was the furthest thing from coy possible.
“Dinner should be finished soon.”
“Where are the other two tattoos?” She didn’t step back and he didn’t let go, but he had to move to show her.
Reluctantly he pulled away and unbuttoned his fly enough to show her the star below his belly button.
“My.” She licked her lips.
“Is that a good my?”
Her gaze locked with his. “You know it is.”
He guessed he did. He worked hard on his body. It gave him somewhere to channel all his sexual energy after the divorce. When he’d discovered he liked things his ex never would have allowed. And then he got concerned it wasn’t normal or healthy.
But he was far too old to worry about it any longer. All this time he’d dated on and off. Fucked when he could, around Carrie’s schedule because she was his priority. He’d had tastes here and there, never wanting to go too far. Never fully trusting any of those women to give him what he needed, or to let go of all that dark desire he harbored. He had felt that it wasn’t worth it to really go full out with someone unless he was going to be with her full time. What he wanted, what he liked, wasn’t a game.
And it had been fine.
But with this woman it was different. She was not fragile or shy. She was not coy. She wore her sexuality openly. She was the kind of woman a man could be an equal with.
He liked that a great deal.
“Is the other tattoo on your cock?”
He barked a laugh. “Fuck no. I like my cock too much to let anyone jab it with a needle.”
It was her turn to laugh. “Good. Cock tattoos are not hot. You, on the other hand are very, very hot.”
“The other tattoo is on my thigh. A small one. I’m thinking of getting it covered.”
“Your ex-wife’s initials? Wedding anniversary?”
“Am I that transparent?”
“No. But you don’t seem the type to get tweety bird on a weekend bender or whatever. So if you wanted to remove it or cover it, I figure it’s something you don’t want to be reminded of anymore.”
“I nearly said it was Yosemite Sam. But then I didn’t think I could keep a straight face. It’s our wedding date. She got one too, though I imagine she’s covered it. At first I left it there to remind me of my mistake. Now it’s just numbers inked into my skin.”
He put his shirt back on and she made a little disappointed sound that brought a smile again.
“What’s the star for?”
“I liked it.”
“I like stars.” She pulled her shirt up and he saw the smattering of stars across her belly and up her side.
“I like yours better.”
“Good to know.”
The kitchen timer began to ding and with a sigh he turned. “Dinner’s ready.”
3
“You’re a pretty good cook.” Truth be told, she’d sort of expected him to have a cook who also cleaned and took care of him.
“Carrie and I learned a lot together. She’s better than I am. Mainly because my mother insisted Carrie be taught to run a household.” He snorted.
“You disagree?”
“My mother’s perspective is that it’s a woman’s duty. Mine is, she should know because she’s a person who will be an adult on her own.”
He was a surprise. Not that she wasn’t around men who would raise their daughters to be independent women, but he clearly came from an established, moneyed family. She knew through Erin that the family matriarch was all about position in the community and all that jazz. But her sons, the two eldest anyway, were pretty open.
She nodded. “She’s going to college so she’ll need to know how to cook.”
“Only so much Cup o’ Noodles she can eat.”
It made her smile to imagine him eating from a little foam cup. “Was that your college mainstay?”
“I had a roommate whose dad owned a restaurant. The guy was pretty amazing in the kitchen. I have to admit I ate pretty well in college. Law school involved a lot of takeout and peanut butter sandwiches though.” He watched her with greedy eyes. “Can you cook?”
She shrugged. “I do all right. I have my few go-to meals. Spaghetti, tacos, soup. Nothing overly complicated. Erin, now she can cook.”
“But she can’t do tattoos.”
He was a flatterer, Jonah Warner. And he knew just exactly what to say to get to her. It wasn’t calculated in any way. Which only made it more powerful.
“She can’t. But the rock star, two husbands, great kid, lots of money part gets her through.”
He laughed. “How long have you known her?”
“Erin? Fourteen, nearly fifteen years now.”
“Where did you grow up? I keep getting a little bit of Southern from you.”
She tried to remain relaxed. It wasn’t as if she never spoke about her personal life. Within limits. “Arkansas.”
“Really? Where?”
She’d told people about Happy Bend, but this man . . . well, he got under her skin. Telling him this thing gave him power of a sort. She wasn’t altogether sure if she wanted that.
“Small town in the middle of nowhere. Anyway, now that I’ve seen your back I think either of the first two designs would work really well. The others all would with some editing. But the tattoo on your shoulder would impact how I’d wrap a few of them.”
“You’re mysterious.”
She snorted. “Not so much.”
“If not, then tell me the name of the town.”
She raised a brow. “You really don’t like to be thwarted, do you? The thing is, even though you’re ridiculously handsome and you kiss like you’d be really good in bed, I’m not going to be goaded like I’m in grade school.” Not that she’d ever been much of a normal grade-schooler anyway.
“And to think you said I was a handful.”
“Well, we all have our crosses to bear.”
“So tell me something. Anything.”
He was so ridiculously charming she couldn’t resist.
“My favorite color is purple.”
“Mine is green.”
“I bet it looks awesome on you.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Your eyes and hair, the sort of tawny skin tone . . . it would work with a deep green.”
“What color are your panties?”
She grinned as she took a sip of her beer. “Who says I’m wearing any?”
He choked.
“Black. Wearing underpants with trousers or jeans is sort of mandatory in my personal rule book.”
“There you go, cutting into my fantasy.”
“Are we pretending I won’t make your fantasy reality?”
He got serious as he looked her over so closely she had to fight back a blush.
Her shrug aimed at nonchalance but most likely failed. “I don’t play games when it comes to sex.”
Usually she said it calmly, but just then he made her feel defensive. Well, no, defensive wasn
’t the right word. Like she needed to declare it with her chin jutted out. Or something.
“You don’t? Well, there goes that fantasy.”
She laughed, relaxing.
“Well, there are games and there are games. I like what I like. I’m an adult. I think it’s a waste of time to pretend we aren’t sexually attracted to each other when we are.”
His gaze went hooded.
“All right. I can get on board with that. I want you.”
Heat and cold washed over her. Which was silly. She wasn’t a virgin by any stretch of the imagination. But this sort of desire left her breathless. Giddy. She wasn’t used to this. A slow heat sure. She’d felt that with Brody Brown for a very long time. He was an attractive man who cared about her, and that had been comforting as well as exciting. But this man . . . well. He wasn’t the long, slow dance that men like Brody Brown were. This man was intense. He stole her breath.
Being so out of sorts and off balance wasn’t something she did well.
Then again, she had no intention of leaving, so to pretend otherwise was ridiculous.
“And I want the Celtic design one. Circles. I like that.”
She would have chosen that one in his place as well. He was a warrior type. Big and braw. Smart. Good lord, she could see the intelligence and cunning in his gaze. Like a wolf, she supposed.
“Nice choice.”
“I feel vindicated that you agree.”
“It’ll look good on you.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’d never allow otherwise?”
“I like my work. I like my reputation. If I cut corners or got sloppy, I’d have neither.”
“That . . . and I think you’re a control freak. Have you ever given any thought to releasing that control?”
His voice had gone low and silky and it sent a shiver through her.
“Are you going to try to convert me now?”
He laughed, but there was more than simple amusement there. This was foreplay.
“I suppose I’d like to show you my idea of heaven.”
Good lord.
“Do I have to read your pamphlet now? I like candy on Halloween. I like to dance. I particularly enjoy premarital sex.”
He stood, stacking her empty plate on his before carrying them to the sink. “In my religion, you can have all the candy, dancing and sex with me that you can stand.”
“Hm. Well, perhaps conversion is something worth considering.”
“First things first. Tattoos.”
He got such a smug expression she was torn between amusement and annoyance. Men. “It’s probably going to take at least two sessions, maybe three. Your design has a lot of shading. Just the outlining alone will take several hours. I can do it here if you like. Or you can come to my place or the shop.”
“The shop is near Green Lake, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Near the zoo. The regular hours are eleven to ten. But I can work around that if you need.”
“Oh, I do need. But not that. Where is your place?”
“Capitol Hill.” Really only about ten minutes from his place.
“And you could do it here you said?”
“You’ll need a comfortable chair or a table to lie on. It needs to be the right height so I can work and not be stooped over. I’ll have all the sterilized equipment with me, no matter where I do it.”
“I don’t have a tattoo table. But, and you’re going to think I’m such a rich asshole, I do have a massage table. In my defense, I had to get surgery on my knee several years ago and the physical therapy involved massages. Because my schedule is crazy, they came out here. It’s in a closet, but would that work?”
She laughed. “You are a rich asshole. But it should, depending on how high it is. I can work back and forth between a chair and the table. It should keep you more comfortable too.”
He glowered and then stomped over, pulling her into his arms to kiss her hard and fast.
“I have to warn you that if insulting you gets me kissed, this is a negative-association thing. I’ll have to keep it up to get more.”
His dark look faded, replaced by a smile. “I’m not an asshole.”
“Hmm. I have a theory about this. Would you like to hear it?”
“Come with me.” He tugged and she followed. “You can tell me on the way.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“Anywhere you’ll let me. Tell me your theory.”
“My theory is about rich people in general. So you’re multi-generational rich. Old money, established family.”
“You seem to know a lot about me.”
“Yes, when I set my plan to get pregnant and trap you into marriage so I could live it up, I had a dossier created about you. It was either that or, say, live in Seattle where you’re in the paper. Oh, or be friends with people who know your brother and his girlfriend.”
He paused, looking her up and down. “Ouch.”
“Indeed. Anyway, back to my theory. Second– or third-gen wealth produces trust-fund assholes who think work is red carpet for so-called charity events in between long bouts of shopping and partying. Rehab is involved sometimes. Marrying older men from other rich families who are supposed to calm Ms. Trust Fund and have her start breeding for the cause. But then there are those families who believe in noblesse oblige. Those successive generations make their kids have jobs. Raise them with a sense of responsibility and gratitude for their situation. Those kids, like you and Levi, work their asses off. But there’s no getting around the simple fact that having money changes your life. You’re accustomed to things like shorter lines at the airport, better service, nicer hotel rooms, your clothes are made better, you eat better. All that stuff. So you’re not an asshole like some who’d yell at the cleaning lady or the valet. You were raised better than that. But you have a sense of entitlement. Not like the trust-fund kids, but it’s there. You were raised with it. You can’t get around it. You don’t like being told no. You don’t like being refused things. You wouldn’t have this house and your expensive wristwatch if you weren’t an asshole in some sense. You work for it and you have to overcome what some in your community do to be taken seriously.”
“You’re pretty smart.”
She frowned. “For a gal who grew up in Happy Bend, Arkansas?”
“Now see, there you are.”
“Here I am?”
He continued to draw her upstairs. “Yes. Happy Bend. Sounds like a lovely small town. Also, working hard and coming from money doesn’t make me an asshole.”
“It’s not Mayberry. It’s a shithole filled with assholes, alcoholics and losers.” She clamped her lips shut against the words. “Anyway, I explained to you the difference between the asshole who throws cell phones at the help and the asshole who works hard but has a sense of entitlement to the best things in life. For instance, do you know how often I get asked by people if I do house calls?”
“No, but I get the feeling you’re going to smack me with the point and I’m going to have to admit you’re right.”
“You should always assume that. But in this case, people ask for me to come to their homes very rarely. Sometimes if someone is recovering from a health issue that makes it hard for them to get out. But mainly, it’s mover-and-shaker types. Who are simply used to being catered to. Now, like I said, there’s a difference between types of assholes. If there wasn’t, I wouldn’t be allowing you to get me into your bedroom.”
“How do you know that’s where I’m taking you?”
“Because you want to fuck me.”
“And I get what I want, Raven.”
“In this case you will, yes.”
He pushed open double doors and she had a very difficult time not being impressed, so she let it happen. Art dominated the walls downstairs as well, but up here, it was a different sort of art. Sensual.
The impressive thing, other than the art and the giant four-postered bed, was the view. The view out three walls of windows with wraparound decking j
ust beyond. The view that took in the lake.
“Gorgeous.”
He looked her up and down. “I’m thinking the exact same thing.”
“I’m no view of the lake. This is stunning.” Imagine waking up to this every day. She might never get out of bed if this was what she saw each day. She’d just sit and sketch her time away.
“This is what sold me on the house.”
She ran fingertips up the smooth, carved curves of the poster she stood nearest to. And hoped fervently he never fucked his ex on this bed. Not normally anything she’d have cared about. But . . . she didn’t want to be associated with memories of another woman.
“I found this bed four years ago. In San Diego of all places, so it had to be shipped.”
Well, that answered her question. No ex in this bed. Not a wife anyway.
“It’s a king’s bed.”
One corner of his mouth lifted. “Is that so?”
She nodded.
The way he looked at her gave her butterflies. Is this what Erin meant when she talked about how Todd made her feel at times? Interesting.
“I’d like to fuck you. Well, I’d like to do lots of things with you, including fucking. You down with that?”
She nodded. “I’m so down with that.”
“The glass is treated. No one can see in. So you should get naked for me.”
She slowly unbuttoned her blouse to reveal the lacy camisole she was very glad she’d worn.
He hummed low, watching, his gaze on her a weight.
She stepped from her shoes, placing them beneath a nearby chair. The sticks came from her hair easily enough, sending it down her back and loose around her shoulders. The camisole slid from her skin, leaving her in a bra. A black-and-purple bra.
Next, the zipper at the side of her trousers slid down, enabling her to step from them.
“Your panties match your bra. I like that.”
She didn’t know why, but the fact that he liked it made her . . . proud.
The bra and underpants took only moments and she stood before him, far more than her skin bared.
He stared, long and hard, not trusting his words. She was so beautiful.
