Inked

by Anne Marsh

  “Let me,” I whisper, and his fingers still on the buckle.

  “Babe?”

  I don’t want to be babe or sweetheart or any of the half a dozen other pet names he probably uses on the women who come and go in his life. I want him to see me, to need me the way I’m starting to need him. I drop to my knees in front of him and finish what he’s started.

  The buckle gives beneath my fingers, and then I’m unbuttoning his jeans, forcing myself to move slowly, to wait for his heated curse, even though I want to take him now, to swallow him whole and hang on to him, adding more perfect moments to my secret collection. I cup his balls through the denim. The hot, heavy weight fills my palm, a hard promise of what this man can do for me.

  “Please,” I whisper.

  Vik’s hands tangle in my ponytail, tilting my head back. He’s fighting for control, but I want him all the way undone, and instinctively I know this is the way to do it. Just as soon as I undo the buttons, he’ll be all mine.

  I add another moment to my collection as I hold him, wrapping my palms around the thick, hard length, fingertips tracing a dirty song over him. He makes a rough noise, but it’s not enough. I want all of him. I lean closer and exhale, my chin bumping against his dick.

  He groans. “Stop teasing, princess, and open up.”

  I glance up at him through my lashes, letting him see the laughter and lo—no, the pleasure I have in doing this for him. With him. Each memory that I’m adding to an ever-growing string of favorite moments. This. Kissing him, touching him, adding a different kind of pearl necklace to my dirty collection... I want it.

  I want him.

  I press my lips against him and he freezes. There’s nothing between us and if it feels good to me, it must feel even better for him. The rough curse he lets loose when I rub my cheek against him seems like a good sign. So I make him mine. I kiss my way down and then up, curling my tongue around the head, then sucking him like he’s my lollipop. He really likes that—the cursing picks up volume and he shoves his hands farther into my hair.

  Despite being on my knees, his hands fisting my ponytail and guiding my head, this doesn’t feel like some kind of power play. I’m tight with desire—to come, to please him, to be his in any way I can. And while I’m tempted to slip into the water just in case anyone does come by, I also want to give him this. To trust him. To make this good for him, too.

  “Harper,” he groans roughly, and when I struggle to take him all, to relax and let him in, I see how much he wants this. Me. Us. He’s so goddamned big that I have serious doubts about handling this, but I take him anyhow. I relax until my mouth’s stretched wide and he’s hitting the back of my throat.

  He tugs on my hair and I look up. “Okay?” he asks.

  I hum a little note of agreement and he groans.

  “Fuck, Harper. You’re killing me.”

  He’s discovered my secret master plan. I suck and moan, letting him know that we’re in this together, letting his hands on my head guide me. He fucks my mouth deeper, faster, harder, and I move with him, cupping his balls and stroking.

  He yanks my hair, the sharp sting waking an answering pulse between my legs. “Gonna come, Harper.”

  I nod around his dick. Yes. That’s my plan.

  He moves faster, I suck harder, and then he’s grabbing my face, holding me still as he comes with a violent shudder. I swallow and then let him go.

  “Jesus,” he whispers roughly, scooping me up in his arms. “Harper.”

  He looks a little dazed and a whole lot possessive. Happy, too, which is funny when I think about it because as much as Vik’s always laughing and joking, I’m not sure I’d describe him as happy. I’m not sure he ever lets down his guard enough to be that. Whatever he is, however, he’s definitely mine.

  “Good?” My gaze flips up to his and he nods.

  “Your turn.” There’s a wealth of dirty promise in his voice as he wades into the water. The water is beyond icy, but it turns out that Vik knows exactly how to warm me up.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Harper

  MY RELATIONSHIP WITH Vik feels as if it’s shifted somehow, even though we’re playing by the same set of rules as before. He always shows up when I text him for a booty call unless he has club business, but that’s just sex. Super-amazing, sometimes dirty, but always wonderful sex. I love the sex. And I trust Vik. But it still seems weird, although that’s probably my inner good girl making a token protest. She’s never had hookup sex before, so she just needs to practice some more and then everything will be fine.

  God. The practicing.

  Vik’s the sexiest man I’ve ever met. Honestly, he’s set the bar way too high for Mr. Right. Creativity, stamina and a dirty mouth—Vik’s bad-boy accessories are perfect. It’s almost enough to make me redo the mental job description I’ve been carrying around for Mr. Right.

  Almost. Not quite.

  Because there are moments—not all that often, but they happen—when it’s impossible to forget that Vik’s a biker. And while the commission of felonies may not be part of Vik’s day-to-day, he has club brothers who’ve served or are serving time. No matter how many Toys for Tots drives they spearhead, the Hard Riders aren’t firefighters, Boy Scouts or good-guy material. They’re willing to break rules they dislike, and no matter how many marks fill the plus column, the number of negatives outweigh them. I’m still getting crap from my coworkers about my biker client, and not one but two of the firm’s senior partners made a point of swinging by my office to “see how it’s going.” Convincing them I’m not laundering money for a drug cartel is harder than you’d think.

  So tonight I’m focused on dating. Dating other men. Fine, upstanding, suit-wearing guys who have their eyes on a corner office and a home in the suburbs. I won’t find Mr. Right if I don’t get out there.

  I steal a moment to text Vik and let him know about the night’s plans. Reaching out to him, though, is a mistake. I can’t think about him without remembering what he looked like naked in my bed, his clothes dropped on my floor. It kind of makes me want to invest in new furniture—maybe a four-poster bed I can tie him to spread-eagled. And since I have no plans to bring tonight’s date home with me, I really should take care of business now.

  Dating feels like I’ve just stepped into the biggest, baddest all-you-can-eat Vegas buffet—too many choices, a super-long line at the door and my table’s way over in the corner. Tonight’s guy seems like a good bet, though. Swipe right, tap the heart...and then wait to see if he’d done the same for me. He had, and now here I am, getting dressed for a date that feels kind of like cheating on Vik.

  Obviously, I’ll have to stop sleeping with him if it looks like there could be anything between me and Mr. Tinder. Vik’s assured me that he understands, and that our hookups will remain private, but is it something I should tell tonight’s date about?

  How would I tell tonight’s date? Excuse me, but I’ve got this awesome friend with benefits who happens to be a badass biker. Oh. You want to know why I’m not seeing him? Yeah. It’s a good question, but I don’t think we could have more, something besides the smoking-hot sex and the comfortable rides. We’re friends, but I want a lover, and then eventually, I want a partner. Whoever he is, he’ll be the kind of guy who will take Bing to the vet with me—not commit a felony to get him back.

  And yet I want to go swimming together and barbecue again.

  I want Vik full-time, instead of whichever hours he decides he can spare me, and that would mean changing the terms of our deal.

  So I’m not really in a dating mood tonight.

  I’m still in my yoga pants and an old Cornell T-shirt with no bra when there’s a knock on the door followed by a text on my phone.

  VIK: Open the door

  I shouldn’t, but I do. Vik’s lounging against the frame, phone in one hand and a candy box tied up with a
ridiculous pink-and-white bow in the other. He hands me the box and then gently nudges me out of his way. Of course I cave, and it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s brought me my favorite sea salt caramels.

  Vik tugs on the hem of my shirt. “Exactly where is Mr. Tinder taking you tonight?”

  I shrug. “Dinner on the Strip.”

  To be honest, I haven’t paid much attention to the details. Vik holds out his hand.

  “Phone.”

  I hand it over and he looks up the texts I’ve exchanged with James the Lawyer. He grins at me. “You need a wardrobe change.”

  “You don’t think this is dinner material?” I smooth a hand down my pants. I’m definitely not rocking a cocktail dress at the moment, and I do want to send the right message.

  Vik smacks me gently on the butt. “Come on.”

  He heads for my bedroom, and I trail after him. It feels sort of weird, since we’re not about to have sex, but if anyone knows what guys like, it’s Vik. After all, he’s dated pretty much everyone with a vagina in the greater Las Vegas area. When I catch up with him, he’s already rummaging through my dresser drawers. Things have gotten far sexier—and skimpier—in those drawers since Vik and I hooked up. Case in point? The pale green thong Vik’s currently admiring. That barely-there scrap of lace made a big impact on my credit card statement last month. It’s too bad Victoria’s Secret doesn’t offer a travel points card because I’d have racked up enough to fly to Bora Bora and back by now.

  It’s weird to think that we could have had our last booty call. That if tonight works out, I won’t be sleeping with Vik ever again. I don’t believe in cheating and an open relationship isn’t for me, and I suspect that Vik has the same set of no-cheating rules. For all that he’s a lawless biker who probably commits felonies with casual nonchalance, he’s got a streak of honor wider than the Grand Canyon.

  He tosses the green thong onto my bed, and then rifles through my closet with the expertise of a Nordstrom personal shopper. Of course, watching his big hands move over my clothes just makes me want to suggest that we ax date night and strip instead. We could get naked, watch Sharknado movies together and take turns getting each other off. Or maybe whoever comes last gets to pick the next movie. That seems fair.

  “Hey.” He snaps his fingers gently. “We gotta get you dressed before Prince Charming shows up.”

  “You’re really okay with this?” I automatically take the dress he hands me. It’s an LBD—little black dress—and there’s definitely no room in this Kate Spade number for a bra. The silky material hugs my hips but the top blouses gently, hiding all sorts of sins. There are worse choices.

  Vik tugs on the satin ribbon that ties around my neck, checking out my tag. “You and Kate should get married.”

  We tease back and forth, him making fun of my obsession with Kate Spade, me pointing out that there are more sartorial choices in this world than black T-shirts and jeans. It’s fun. It’s familiar—and I keep expecting him to go, to leave before my date arrives, but he shows no signs of departing. I’m trying to figure out how to give him the boot when there’s a knock on the door.

  “Showtime.” Vik rubs his hands together as he bounces toward the door.

  “Hey,” I hiss, grabbing the hem of his T-shirt. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Getting the door.” He flashes me an innocent smile. “You should thank me for being so helpful.”

  “I think you’re leaving,” I say firmly. No point in beating around the bush—subtlety is wasted on Vik.

  “So I’m headed in the right direction.” His grin widens.

  I elbow him out of the way and make it to the door first. I don’t need tonight’s date scared off before we even make it to the lobby. Vik grunts but lets me open the door.

  The guy on the other side looks exactly like his Tinder picture. His navy blue suit is expensive but not flashy, as are the Ferragamo loafers. He’s skipped the tie but gone for a dress shirt open at the throat. The whole effect is very similar to one of those gorgeous, slick Christmas presents you pay to have gift wrapped at Macy’s.

  “Hi. Harper, I assume?” He leans in and brushes a quick kiss over my cheek rather than sticking out his hand. Jeez. He’d better hope he has the right girl. I can’t help but notice that we’re the same height. In fact, with my heels I might have an inch on him.

  “Nice to meet you, James.” I beam determinedly at him and nod like a bobblehead as I step backward so he can come in. Bar meetings are less awkward and I make a mental note for next time. The odds of my finding Mr. Right on my first date are low, so I should learn from tonight’s mistakes so I can get it right next time. Kill me.

  Vik materializes behind my shoulder. He doesn’t even try to be sneaky about it—he just stomps right up. James looks slightly concerned.

  “Is this your brother?”

  Vik snorts. “I’m her best friend.”

  Huh. That doesn’t sound half as crazy as it should.

  James looks a little uncertain but game. “Okay, then.”

  Vik leans against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest and pretty much blocking the entire hallway. “And where are you taking our Harper tonight, James?”

  Unless he was hit by the amnesia stick in the last five minutes, Vik knows exactly where we’re headed.

  “I have reservations for us at Picasso.”

  Vik nods. “Harper likes the fountain. You want to show her a good time, you make sure she can see it, you feel me? Pretty fucking romantic watching the show.”

  “Hey.” I’m pretty sure my face is moving from peony pink to flaming tomato red. Best friend does not mean Vik gets to act like my dad. “I can manage my own date.”

  Vik doesn’t get the hint. “She likes shellfish. Steak so raw you think it’s gonna fucking moo at you. Anything with truffles in it or sugar on it.”

  James smiles, and it’s a nice smile. The corners of his mouth curve right up, the smile reaching his eyes. He’s decided this is funny, and I can’t really blame him. I’m starting to suspect that Vik would wrap me in a chastity belt if he had one handy.

  “We’ll get the biggest lobsters in Vegas,” he promises easily. “Are we ready?”

  Vik shoves off the wall. “How are you getting there?”

  Jeez. “Vik—”

  He holds up a hand. “Let the man answer the question, Harper.”

  “My car’s out front,” James says. “Mercedes-Benz C-Class. The National Highway Traffic Safety Administration promises Harper will be safe with me. It’s got one of the best ratings for crashes.”

  “Are you planning on crashing tonight?”

  Wisely, James starts heading for the door.

  I follow him, snagging my purse from the side table. “We’re done here.”

  Vik ignores me. “Harper’s fucking priceless. You treat her like that, you feel me?”

  “Absolutely.” James pulls the door open and waits for me to go first. God. He’s such a gentleman.

  “Thanks for having this conversation with me.” Vik slaps James on the back. We’re all bottled up at the door, and I’m starting to get concerned that I might never get to head out on my date (at least not without a bonus biker chaperone) when Vik’s phone rings.

  That’s his dad’s ringtone.

  “What’s up?” he asks as he steps away.

  “Are you ready?” James presses his hand against the small of my back and my new firebird, urging me toward the door. He’s right. We should totally take advantage of Vik’s distraction to escape. I’m sure we’ve got reservations and shouldn’t be late, but something’s up from the way Vik’s free hand taps out an impatient rhythm against his thigh. I can’t hear much but I know that Mr. Serge isn’t in the best of health, physically or mentally, and Vik worries.

  “Is everything okay?” I wait for Vik to hang up and
follow us out before locking up. James moves down the hall ahead of us, punching the button for the elevator and generally giving us some space.

  Vik shakes his head. “My dad’s had some kind of thing. Don’t know what, but Lora’s driving him to the ER because he’s refusing an ambulance. She says it’s probably just heartburn, but we should be sure. I’m gonna go meet them.”

  “I can go with you.”

  “I’ve got this. You go on your date.” He pauses, and for a moment I think he might kiss me—or pull me into a hug. We’re friends. It would be okay. Instead after a few awkward seconds, he shoots me a careful smile and lopes toward the stairwell.

  “See you,” he calls over his shoulder.

  So I go. I mean, what else can I do? And it turns out fine. Fine but boring. James doesn’t have tattoos, doesn’t ride balls-out, but he also doesn’t judge me. Or fuck me up against a wall, kiss me senseless, make me laugh.

  Turns out, a guy can wear a suit and still be Mr. All Wrong.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Harper

  VIK’S NOT MY loaner penis.

  Okay.

  He’s not just my loaner penis.

  He’s not just anything. How do I know this? Let me count the ways. Item one: I’m reading his texts while I mainline my sad desk salad at work. Usually, I do a quick run-through of the major financial news sites while I work my way through two cups of arugula and a can of dolphin-safe tuna fish. Item two? I spent the weekend texting him and trying not to run over to his place to check up on him.

  I’m not sure how his dad is doing, or if Vik’s okay. He spent the weekend with his dad, which I totally get. The Friday-night ER visit turned out to be precautionary rather than required, and his dad’s back home. Vik is still trying to sort out tests and doctors, but he claims everything is more or less fine. I’m not so convinced, even though today’s text has me smiling, and it’s not even funny. Or dirty. Or unusual.