Inked

by Anne Marsh

  “Let’s do this again,” he says.

  Something throbs between my legs, either in anticipation or a warning shot that any more sex and I might be permanently broken.

  “Can you die from too much coming?”

  He drops a kiss on top of my head. “Not sure we should put that to the test. Sore?”

  “A little.” I roll over, burying my face in the pillow.

  “You want me to kiss it better?”

  “I’ll take a rain check.” There’s no way I can hold back my yawn—the man has worn me out.

  Vik freezes and there’s this moment of awkward silence. Clearly, I’ve read more into tonight than I should have. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned the possibility of a next time, but I was mostly joking. I know I shouldn’t push for anything more, and frankly I don’t know what I want.

  Other than his dick.

  Vik’s dick is my favorite.

  And I think I have some body parts that he’s rather fond of, too.

  “Not sure what’s happening here, but I gotta tell you something,” he says finally.

  “Okay?” I’m really not in the mood for the letdown speech. Last time he snuck out, leaving a cute note. I’d like a little more than that, but I’m honestly not sure how much more.

  “You keep calling me, and I’ll be the best booty call ever. I promise you this, sweetheart. I’ll be your best. Got an orgasm gift-wrapped, with your name on it. Helps to have a face to show my old man, too—makes him happy to think I’m seeing someone nice. You want to do this again?”

  “We can,” I say slowly. “And I have to admit that I want to, but I’ve got to be honest. I’m in the market for a long-term, forever relationship, and that’s not us.”

  He shrugs easily. “Yeah, I’m not into anything permanent, either, babe. Like I said, booty call. You call me when you need some, and I’ll call you. It doesn’t have to be complicated.”

  “So just until I meet Mr. Right?” Okay, so I sound less doubtful than I should when he proposes no-strings-attached sex. But his dick’s amazing, and I like the guy. We could have fun together.

  “That works,” he says easily. “I’ll even throw in a freebie and help you screen potential dates.”

  I snort. “You’re going to play matchmaker to my Yentl?”

  He rubs a palm up and down my back. My tattoo’s healed and there’s not a lick of pain now. “I’m not gonna get in your way, Harper. We’ll do what you want on your terms. You meet a nice guy, good for you. You meet someone not so great, I’ll be your own personal bouncer.”

  It’s the craziest idea I’ve ever heard. But I like Vik, I like his penis, and it’s not like I’ll stroll out onto the Strip this afternoon and stumble over the perfect man. So why not enjoy Vik in the meantime? We’re good together, and I think we could be friends. Plus, there’s the whole incredible orgasms thing. The man’s a total giver in that department, and it would be a shame to not take advantage.

  “Okay.” I’m weak. Completely, utterly weak. I blame that on the hot sex. “I’ll call you. You’ll call me. Somehow this will all work out.”

  He drops a kiss onto my forehead. “I’ll be the best booty call ever. Just wait and see.”

  Yeah. There’s no doubt in my mind that the man can deliver. I drift off to sleep, probably wearing a big, goofy smile because the man has fucked all the common sense straight out of my head. I’ve never felt this giddy about a hookup. That’s never happened before. I mean, he’s also my first attempt at casual sex, but I’m giving myself an A for effort. Letting him go would be disappointing.

  When I wake up minutes, hours, who-knows-how-much later, there’s a heavy, muscled arm draped over my stomach. I consider sucking in my belly because there’s more curve there than I like, but on the other hand, Vik doesn’t seem to mind. So I give up on miraculously transforming into a Victoria’s Secret model and trace my fingers over the ink on his forearm. He has matching bands, dark geometrical scrolls of mandalas that circle upward from the tops of his hands. But because some things can’t wait, no matter how beautiful he is, I shift his arm and make for the edge of the bed.

  He grunts and rolls over. “You up? You need me to go?”

  “Call of nature,” I overshare. He nods, settling back into the bed. God, he’s gorgeous. Because I’ve had my fingers in it for the better part of the night, his blond hair is tousled so he looks like some kind of sleeping bear. It cascades over his bare shoulders, almost reaching his chest. He snags my pillow, though, so it’s not like he’s a saint.

  After pulling on his T-shirt to cover up my ass, I grab my phone and snap a picture. Some things are even better with photographic proof. I take care of my business in the bathroom and then step out onto my teeny-tiny balcony. If I twist my head and lean dangerously sideways, I actually have a view of the Strip. While I admire the sliver of pyramid that I can see, I call Brooklyn. That girl’s got a sick penchant for running at the crack of dawn, so I’m betting she’s already up. Sure enough, she answers.

  When she picks up, I just blurt it out. “I had sex.”

  “Congratulations.” She sounds faintly out of breath, so I’m betting she’s getting her jog on. “Anybody I know?”

  In answer, I send her the picture I took of Vik.

  “You screwed the tattoo artist?”

  “He’s a biker, too, and he’s freaking gorgeous,” I point out. Strictly in the spirit of being honest, of course, and not because I feel like screaming or doing handstands because I, Harper George, have just banged the ever-living daylights out of a man who is very clearly a ten-plus on the hotness scale.

  “Are you seeing each other?” Brooklyn’s breathing escalates, so either she’s just as affected by Vik’s picture as I am, or she’s definitely running.

  “He’s my booty call.” God, that sounds weird. I mean, it also sounds downright fantastic, but this isn’t something I have any experience with.

  I can practically hear Brooklyn rolling her eyes. “You’ve had your hands on that man and once was enough?”

  “We have an arrangement.” I hope she doesn’t fall over laughing. “We’re going to call each other whenever we want sex.”

  “Wow.” For a moment, she says nothing.

  “Brooklyn?”

  “I’m trying to imagine this,” she says. “Which is fun but I’m also a little worried about you.”

  “Did you look at that picture? We should be cracking champagne to celebrate,” I protest.

  “Booty calls can be dangerous.” She sighs. “It’s like buying the ten-dollar box of Star Wars Legos with the super-cool Darth Vader and then suddenly you’re upgrading to the four-million-piece Death Star set and every time you step barefoot on the carpet, you find another super-pointy, overlooked piece.”

  “Is Vik Darth Vader or the Death Star in this example?”

  “He’s trouble. Hot, gorgeous, bad-boy trouble. He’s going to look prettier and easier until you take him out of his box to play, and you need to be careful you don’t get hurt.”

  She’s just looking out for me, I remind myself. “Duly noted.”

  “Okay.” She sighs again, sounding a little happier. “But you still have to tell me all the details when we get together, okay? And you’re buying since you’re the one with the naked hottie in her bed.”

  We say goodbye and I tiptoe back inside. Or try to.

  A big, hard arm swings me around and off my feet.

  “Morning, babe.”

  Turns out my biker is even better than that first cup of morning coffee. We end up back in bed so he can kiss all my sore spots better, and then he takes off to do biker things, roaring off on his Harley before I have to invent awkward excuses to get him to leave.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Harper

  “WHAT ABOUT THIS GUY?” I point to a dark-haired man on my phone while w
e wait for the light to change. Phone Guy is wearing a well-cut suit, a blue dress shirt open at the throat and no tie. The photo’s classy but relaxed, so I think he should go in my keeper pile.

  Vik turns his head so he can peer at Bachelor Number Twenty-Two. Since I’m wrapped around his back and straddling his bike, he’s got limited viewing options. I wriggle, trying to get comfortable. While he makes a very sexy pillow, the man is hard and not just in the dick department. We’ve been hooking up for the last month, and the sex has been amazing. Vik may not be my forever man, but he’s definitely turning out to be perfect for right now.

  Taking the phone from my hands, he makes a noncommittal noise. “You like the looks of him?”

  It’s surprisingly difficult to explain why some men look okay when others look all wrong. So far, no one has ticked all the boxes on the Fuck Him and Marry Him list, but I have time. And while I look, I get hot sex on the side. As long as Vik wants to be friends with benefits, I’m up for it. So far, the orgasms have been as mind-blowing as I expected and the awkwardness has been far less.

  “He chose a suit,” I point out. “But no tie. He’s got a great job and he’s open to settling down with the girl of his dreams.”

  “He likes outdoor sports.” Vik lazily hands the phone back to me. “And his idea of the best-ever date is canyoneering in Red Rock Canyon. Are you up for a two-hundred-foot rappel? Maybe you should practice, babe.”

  I’m sure Vik means that I should practice my outdoor skills, but right now I have other things on my mind. Big, sexy, bad-boy biker kinds of things. I blame Vik. He’s the one who came by my place and suggested we go for a ride. He followed up his suggestion by prowling straight into my closet to rifle through my things in search of “riding gear.” I got a little of my own back by “helping out” with his plan to dress me like his own personal Barbie doll by stripping down to my panties. That led to a very nice detour on the bed, but now we’re riding. Or stopping for every red light in Vegas, which is also okay because I’m not in a hurry to get anywhere. I shove my phone back into my pocket as the light finally changes and we take off.

  Vik on his bike gets my panties wet and the bike is just an added bonus. I love riding. It makes me feel like I’m hurtling down the world’s shortest, fastest runway and that any second now I’ll achieve liftoff and fly. My feet have yet to leave the ground when I’m with Vik, but I have high hopes. He takes me up the Strip today, and even in the sunlight, it’s a fun riot of color. It’s also extremely congested, which gives me plenty of time to check out the various attractions. The fountains explode as we ride past the Bellagio and I laugh. Seems like the kind of thing Vik would have planned. The man loves over-the-top gestures. Maybe he plans on ending our night by riding off into the sunset.

  “Four o’clock,” he says when we idle yet again at the next red light. I look and spot a group of men in business attire. “Red tie, navy blue suit, closest to the curb.”

  I let my gaze roam over Blue Suit as my arms tighten around Vik’s waist, my chin resting on his shoulder. Vik’s wearing his leather jacket, and beneath that, his club vest and a black T-shirt. His hair’s pulled back into a ponytail, exposing the ink that edges his throat. More ink peeks out from beneath his jacket and on his knuckles. This is one of those perfect moments that I’d like to bottle up or freeze so that I can take it out and remember it over and over again in a month, a year, a lifetime. Eventually, Vik and I will part ways, and then these memories will be all I have left of him.

  He’s so beautiful.

  I concentrate on breathing in and out as I tighten my hands over his stomach. He’s so solid, so very, very present. Maybe it’s because he’s built like his medieval namesake, but every inch of me is aware of where I’m pressed up against him.

  “Why him?”

  “That suit didn’t come cheap.” Vik shrugs. “And you see the way he pays attention to what his boys are saying? He’ll pay attention to you like that.”

  Blue Suit crosses in front of us, ushering the older man in the group first. He’s good-looking but not self-absorbed. Vik’s not wrong about his attractiveness, but it’s not like I could act on the recommendation. What am I going to do, pass out a business card like those guys who line the Vegas sidewalks handing out cards for lap dances and private parties?

  “Two o’clock,” Vik says.

  “I only need one man,” I protest, even as I look.

  “You didn’t want the first guy,” he growls.

  No. No, I didn’t.

  Fortunately, once we leave the Strip behind us, we pick up speed and Vik stops offering to hook me up. He’s decided to take me to Red Rock. And since he promises I’ll like it, I’m all in. After all, what’s not to like about the desert, some cliffs and tons of wildlife?

  We abandon the bike in the parking lot, although Vik grabs his saddlebags, slinging them over his shoulder. Then he threads his fingers through mine and heads past the obvious campsites. It’s hot, the few tents and RVs almost visibly steaming in the afternoon sunlight. A few steps into our walk, he passes me a bottle of water. I’m not entirely certain if the benefits of hydrating outweigh the dubious charms of the campsite toilets. I much prefer doing my business in the Bellagio’s marble stalls to squatting behind a manzanita bush.

  Trust and promises of pleasure only go so far with this girl, however. The longer we walk, the more I want specifics. “Tell me exactly where we’re going?”

  The corners of his mouth quirk up. “You don’t like surprises?”

  He knows I don’t. He teased me mercilessly when he spotted my paper planner. It’s the deluxe Happy Planner model, and even though we’re months from the end of the year, it weighs about ten pounds thanks to my liberal use of washi tape because I believe you can be both organized and pretty. Thank God he didn’t spot my dream board when he rifled through my closet earlier today. I’d never hear the end of that.

  “One mile.” His fingers squeeze mine. That’s the thing about Vik—he teases, but he also makes sure I always get what I need. He seems okay with my quirks. I take a moment to pause and set my Fitbit. This is going to be the mother lode of steps.

  Vik’s mile turns out to be more of an amble than a hike, if I’m honest. He takes me down a dirt trail, our hands still linked, and I split my time between staring at his butt and the scenery. The famous walls of Red Rock Canyon soar overhead, all stark rock and handfuls of scrubby bushes and grasses. I’m just starting to get into it when Vik stops, looks around and then steps. Off. The. Path.

  Hello.

  I’ve seen those movies, read those books.

  You don’t leave the path. EVER.

  I dig in, planting my feet on the well-traveled path. Vik, of course, just grins at me. That smile of his... I’m in so much trouble.

  “Problem, babe?”

  I point to the trail (such as it is—it’s not like he’s taking me down a well-paved highway with sanctioned rest stops). “This is where we want to be, honey buns.”

  Every time he calls by one of his ridiculous nicknames, I’m trying on a new one for him. I Googled an entire list and have them stored on my phone.

  He tugs lightly on my hand. “Trust me.”

  And tugs again.

  Somehow, just like that, I’m following him off the path and into the brush. After our closet encounter earlier today, I’m ready to jump him again. But we have to establish some boundaries, and I do need to get on with my life. I can’t keep letting him do whatever he wants.

  But as always, Vik squashes all my logical objections simply by tucking me into his side. He blazes a new path, holding the thornier branches aside for me, and making sure I’m good. If I have to have an up-close-and-personal encounter with Mother Nature, this isn’t a bad way to do it. Vik smells fantastic, too, all leather and man instead of the usual Burberry Eau de Toilette I breathe in at work. He hums a heavy metal tune. Since the la
st time he came over humming he left me with a Metallica earworm, I’m prepared today. I review my Disney princess knowledge and get my Pocahontas on. Bet my rendition of “Just Around the Riverbend” can drown out his rock tunes.

  He shoots me a sidelong glance and hums louder. I counter, and before long we’re both shout-singing at the top of our lungs. God, he’s the best kind of jackass. If there’s any nature around here, it’s completely drowned out by our noise. Ryan Seacrest will not be begging us to join American Idol anytime soon.

  “Time to stop.” Vik slaps a big hand over my mouth and I nip lightly at his fingers. Gag me, will he? I’m about to up the ante and bite something else when I hear the water.

  I push his hand away. “Are we swimming?”

  He swats my butt. “You bet.”

  The swimming hole comes into view, the blue-green water so clear that I can see the rocks on the bottom. Vik drops the bags by the side of the creek and shucks his jacket and vest, hanging them on a branch. Then he hauls his T-shirt over his head. Pleasure explodes through me. I love watching him, the way he moves so confidently, attacking life head-on. And even though I should question the stripping-down-in-public thing, I don’t. I just stand and stare.

  He laughs, the sound low and rough. “Get naked, Harper. I’ve been waiting to see you all day.”

  He makes it sound simple, as if we’re not outside where anyone could see us. This section of the river may be private, but there can’t possibly be any truly secret swimming holes near Vegas. It’s too hot, the weather too perfect for a dip, for those secrets to be kept for long. And yet I start to undress, sliding off the cute, wine-colored leather jacket I impulse-bought online after our first ride together. I toe off my boots, peeling my socks off even more quickly because stripteases are for satin and silk, not moisture-wicking cotton. Vik’s shed his own boots, and his hands work his belt open.