Inked

by Anne Marsh

  “Do you like that?” He rubs his erection against my butt. That is a little vague, and we’re in unfamiliar territory, but I’ve always liked everything Vik has done to me. With me. For me. I nod enthusiastically and he taps the back of my thighs.

  “Open up. I’ll make you feel better.”

  My knees know who they trust. Unlike my head, they don’t need to think shit over or come up with a plan. They part slowly, but they hold nothing back. They let him have everything and anything.

  A fingertip traces the seam of my folds, teasing. I whimper, trying to force him deeper. Vik’s such a gentleman, because he dips his finger deeper and then strokes slowly up. Down. Everywhere he touches me I’m hot and wet, my body aching, begging for more. The tension builds, my body taking over because I’m about to come and I’m right here, bent over Vik’s bed and on the edge of falling off into the world’s biggest orgasm ever and—

  He stops.

  “If you didn’t come here for sex, you don’t need this,” he growls.

  Logically, I know I can’t die from not coming. Vik, however, is looking at a death sentence because I’m going to kill him.

  “This night going according to plan, babe?”

  He holds me still with an arm at the small of my back when I try to wriggle upright. He is such a bastard.

  “I came here for you,” I hiss. “Not a hookup.”

  “This is all I have to give you, babe.”

  I hesitate. “I want everything you have to give.”

  He’s wrong. He’s so much more than a talented set of fingers or a big dick. I need to tell him that, make him understand, but he grabs my hips and positions himself at my entrance.

  God, he’s huge.

  And impatient.

  He shoves himself deep inside me, driving home, and fuck words. I scream, letting everything I’m feeling out. Being facedown on Vik’s bed helps with that—the sound’s muffled and it’s just him and me. It feels good and it feels raw and I don’t want him to stop. He pounds into me, creating a raw burn that becomes the brightest, strongest pleasure ever. It’s like the night we re-met and he inked me, the pain and discomfort becoming a doorway I step through to somewhere pleasurable. I’m making noises and he’s grunting, his hips slapping against my ass with each hard stroke. Right now, he’s all mine.

  And like the pain when he inked me, my anger changes, becoming something else. It’s a connection, a feeling, a heated, pissed-off, burning, fucking fantastic sensation that I refuse to feel guilty about because it’s not PC. He pushes me open, slamming into me hard and with none of his usual finesse. It’s as if everything inside him has burst open, too, and now he can’t or won’t hold back. My head hits the mattress with each rough stroke, my thighs bowed wide, and it’s so impossibly good.

  He comes first, holding me wide-open as he empties himself into me, stretching me so he can fill me up. I cry out because he can’t leave me behind, not this time, not when it matters so much that we go somewhere, anywhere together. But fuck him. I can take what I want, I can—

  He pulls out, flips me over and covers me with his mouth. I’m dripping wet with his come and my own wetness, and I still want more. I ride his face and it’s fast and brutal. He pushes me toward my orgasm ruthlessly, tonguing and kissing and sucking me. I come apart in seconds, crying out and squeezing his head between my thighs.

  “Harper.”

  He says my name, and I’d like to think I hear other things in that one word. Things like I’m sorry and stay and be mine. But this is dirty hookup sex, not a box of candy hearts. I don’t get my choice of sweet messages. I don’t get his heart.

  My dress is still up around my waist, and I’ve completely lost my panties. And my mind.

  “This isn’t a booty call,” I whisper into the sheets. Then I say it again, louder, with different words. “This matters. We matter.”

  He looks at me and time slows down. I want to grab his shoulders and shake him. Kick him hard in the balls because maybe then he’ll finally feel something for me. It’s so stupid, wanting more from a man who’s told me over and over that he can’t. That he won’t.

  “I love you,” I say and wait.

  There’s a long, painful moment of radio silence. I roll onto my side, and he lets me go.

  “Fuck, Harper,” he says finally.

  That is so not an I love you, too.

  His hand comes up, like maybe he’s about to brush the hair back from my face, but I bare my teeth at him and he backs away before I bite his finger the fuck off. It’s obvious that can’t and won’t mean don’t and never fucking ever. So it makes no sense for me to stick around. To stick with him. He’s not in love with me.

  I get up.

  I get dressed.

  And then I leave.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Vik

  WHAT’S WRONG WITH straight-up sex?

  Harper’s been my dirty girl, my fun girl, my one-night stand on fucking repeat.

  Gotta love that.

  I’ve never gone for seconds or thirds. I get around, but when I’m in your bed, I make sure you have a damned good time. Harper just got a little more of me than normal. Nothing wrong with that. No promises, no strings, no meaning. I don’t know where she’s got this idea that we should be something else. Why fuck with a good thing? Why risk screwing it up?

  I think about this off and on for the next week. It’s hard. Or maybe that’s because after Harper walks out on me, things take on a fuzzy, dazed quality. Isn’t that what all those stupid songwriters claim? That they’re walking through rainstorms, fog storms, totally apocalyptic storms?

  I just sort of want to see Harper again.

  A lot.

  I ink giggling college freshmen and have no one to tell. I catch myself drawing pictures to capture moments that will make Harper smile, but there’s no place to send them.

  She’s just...gone.

  And having just lost my dad, I’ve got more experience than I’d like with absences. I’d like to believe that someday, on some road, some place, my dad and I will ride together again. Problem is, that’s not today and it’s sure as fuck not tomorrow. I don’t have a choice about that timeline and I’ll have to wait, but with Harper?

  I kicked her out.

  I told her to go, and she did.

  That makes this absence my fault. And when it’s your fault, you can’t just change your mind and, boom, you get the missing person back. But I wish I could. I wish she were right here, in my arms, and we were fighting or loving, laughing, living, inking—doing anything and everything instead of nothing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Vik

  TO WIN HARPER BACK, I need a plan. A really awesome, kick-ass plan. After all, Harper’s almost as in love with her planner as she used to be with me. She loves forethought, organization and ten-step strategies for handling anything and everything. If I want to show her that I’ve changed and convince her that I love her, it’s not enough to drop at her feet and start belting out the I love yous. I wouldn’t believe me, either.

  I’d insist on proof.

  Lots and lots of fucking amazing proof that did not involve our bodies getting naked and exchanging dirty favors—although I’m totally making a list for our honeymoon. Yes, honeymoon. I’m dreaming big. And anyhow, the longer I have to fantasize, the more creative I’ll be. It’ll be like my really early, super-awesome Christmas present to her.

  Huh. Now, that’s an idea. I could make Christmas come early. Never mind that it’s September, we live in Vegas and we have more palm trees than pines. My planning ahead should just score me bonus points. I whip out my phone and Google-fu nets me the seeds of a plan. You know that song “Twelve Days of Christmas”? If you don’t, you’re about to.

  I kick off Monday by sending a prospect to Harper’s work with an early Christmas pres
ent. I’d bring it myself, but she’s currently pissed off and not answering my texts. Pretty sure I’ll get shit from the rest of the club about my presentation, but I’ll deal. Goolie certainly isn’t happy about the big, pink box he gets to carry on his bike. Or maybe it’s the even larger black velvet ribbon that took me fucking forever to tie. FYI, there are much better ways to spend an hour with ribbon. I’m hoping Harper keeps it and I can show her.

  Inside the box is a planner. It’s pink to match the box, and I nearly gave myself second-degree burns hot-gluing the black bows to the front. From the number of bow-bedazzled clothes in Harper’s closet, I’ve deduced she really likes bows—so I’ll give them to her. The inside of the planner, however, reflects my tastes. I’ve cut-and-pasted pages from the Kama Sutra. We can pick a different position for each day of the year.

  Harper doesn’t say anything.

  No texts.

  No phone call.

  No fucking skywriter drawing my name and hers across the Vegas sky.

  Sure, that last one’s a stretch, but I won’t think about failing. Losing Harper isn’t an option. Since I have a bike and know where she is, I ride over at five o’clock to wait in the parking garage next to her car. Five o’clock becomes six and then seven. It’s ridiculous how much she works. When she finally appears, it’s almost eight and she looks exhausted. She also looks good enough to eat. Her pink shirt’s got a bow sitting right over her tits and her heart, just pointing the way for me.

  She doesn’t see me because she’s so intent on reaching for her door handle. Her face is strained, and she has the look of someone getting the hell out of dodge. She juggles an impressive mountain of paperwork as she points her clicker at her car. It’s definitely intervention time.

  “Babe. How was your day?”

  She shrieks, paper mountain collapsing in an avalanche, and she points the clicker at me. Thank fuck it’s not a gun or I’d be a dead man.

  “You.” Her eyes narrow.

  “Me.” I consider going in for a hello kiss, but her eyes promise that would just seal my death sentence. I settle for crouching at her feet and scooping up her papers. Gives me a real nice view of her legs, too.

  “What is this?” She smacks me on the head with her new planner. She makes no move to help me in my collection attempts. That’s okay—I’ve got no problem sitting at her feet for hours. Might eventually have to work my way up—with my mouth—but I’m a patient man. Mostly.

  “It’s a Christmas present,” I tell her.

  “It’s September.” The tone of her voice seriously questions my sanity.

  “Christmas is coming early this year. That’s your first present.”

  “There are more?” She sounds distinctly unthrilled.

  I hum a few bars of the “Twelve Days” song and she groans.

  “Are you here to torture me?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “Giving you a heads-up.” I grab the last paper, pat the mess into a vaguely rectangular shape and stand up. “I’m giving you the twelve days of Christmas and tomorrow’s our first day.”

  “I don’t want Christmas. I don’t want twelve days with you. And there’s no us.” She stabs me in the chest with the clicker after each sentence.

  I open her car door, drop the stack of paper inside and then hold the door for her like a fucking gentleman. I should paint my Harley white and pretend it’s a horse and I’m a knight.

  “What do you want, Vik?”

  I keep it short and sweet. “You.”

  She’s equally to the point as she drops into the driver’s seat. “Fuck off.”

  * * *

  Do you know the words to the Christmas song? Because whoever wrote that thing had the world’s worst taste in Christmas gifts. Asshole definitely wasn’t a Macy’s shopper. The first day of Christmas calls for a partridge in a pear tree. Achieving this requires a minor felony on my part and takes the better part of Tuesday. I bribe one of the Bellagio’s waiters for one of those silver room service domes and then I load it up with a nice roast chicken and a poached pear swimming in something alcoholic. More money changes hands when I reach Harper’s building and it gets me inside to her front door. This is where the second felony comes in.

  I’m naked except for the bow around my neck. Harper really, really likes bows. And dinner. And sugar. I’m just hoping she likes me most. I lean hard on her bell because this whole plan will go much better if she spots me before her neighbors do. It’s twenty-four long, naked seconds before she opens the door. I count each one, which just goes to show how much Harper’s changed me, right?

  “Jesus.” She stares at me and I refrain from the obvious jokes about not being a deity. Instead, I wave the tray at her.

  “Surprise. Can I come in?”

  Look at me using my company manners and asking instead of telling.

  “You’re naked.” She looks a little wild-eyed. Also, her gaze may dip beneath my bow. She’s welcome.

  “I’m apologizing,” I correct. “I fucked up big-time, Harper. I get that. You told me that you loved me, and I told you shit. You want me down on my knees? Because I can do that.”

  “What makes you think this is what I’d want?”

  “Me? On my knees? I think you’d fucking love that, babe.”

  Generally speaking, groveling isn’t something I do. Ever. And getting down on my knees only happens when it involves pussy and my tongue. But for Harper? Anything’s possible. I drop down and set the tray down on the floor in front of me. This both frees up my hands and prevents her from slamming the door closed.

  “Oh my God.” Her gaze darts down the hall.

  “Can I come in?”

  “No.”

  “Can I apologize?”

  Christ, she’s fucking beautiful. My dick picks this grossly inappropriate moment to stand up and applaud her.

  “Go.” She points toward the elevator. “Just—go.”

  “I brought you dinner. It’s a partridge and a pear. Not sure I worked out the ‘in a tree’ part, but I’m hoping you cut me some slack.” I nudge the room service tray toward her, and for a minute, I think I’ve got her. Then she shoots the tray back toward me, zips inside and slams the door. I retrieve my clothes from the stairwell, get dressed and move on to the next step in my plan. I’ve got eleven more days, as I explain to the homeless guy I end up sharing the chicken with. We sit on the curb, picnicking, and I figure day one could have gone worse.

  * * *

  The second fucking day of Christmas calls for turtledoves. Since real birds shit everywhere and would disagree with Bing’s digestive tract, on Wednesday I clean the drugstore out of Turtles and Doves. I take the whole lot of chocolate over to Harper’s office at dark o’clock and let myself in. This requires smiling charmingly at her assistant, who’s more than willing to let me wait for Harper in Harper’s office. I keep my clothes on this time because Harper loves her goddamned job and I won’t do anything to jeopardize it.

  “Day two, babe,” I tell her when she shows up clutching a coffee. Since I’m sitting on her desk, she can’t exactly miss me. Figure I won’t scare the shit out of her this time, either.

  She jabs a finger at the sugar mountain stacked beside me. “What is this?”

  Since she asked, I sing her the verse. “On the Second day of Christmas my true love sent to me two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.” I pause. “I didn’t bring you another chicken, though. Didn’t seem like breakfast food. Guess I could have gone for chicken and waffles. You want a redo?”

  She rubs her temples. “Why are you here? Why do you think I’d want you here?”

  “I know what you like.” The trick is to sound confident. Remember what I said before? Harper. Forgiveness. Another chance. That’s all that matters.

  “How do ten thousan
d calories reflect your greater understanding of me?”

  “You like candy. You like laughing. You have an awesome fucking sense of humor.”

  Harper stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. Which I may have. My dad would have smacked me upside my head, and he’d have been right. Of course, he’d also have laughed his ass off—and then he’d have suggested that we fill Harper’s office to the ceiling with candy. Go big or go home, right?

  Thinking about him hurts just a little less today, although it still feels like getting a root canal with no drugs. And possibly using a shovel to do the digging around in my gums. Or my heart.

  Harper braces her hip against her desk. She hums a bit of the song. “You’re really doing the entire song?”

  “You bet.” And because I’m all in and dignity has gone out the window already, I start belting it out at the top of my lungs. I hop off the desk, grab her hands and dance her around in circles. I even throw in a few pelvis thrusts.

  “Oh God. Stop.” She’s giggling, though. She doesn’t look pissed off anymore. She looks...happy.

  I stop.

  “You want me to strip? I’ll give you breakfast and a show.”

  Don’t think I didn’t plan for this. Thanks to the staying power of the Sharpie, I’ve drawn a hundred big, black, loopy bows on the Calvin Kleins I bought precisely for this occasion.

  Harper slaps a hand over my mouth. “Not in my office.”

  “Where?”

  This seems promising. Like hot-makeup-sex promising.

  “You need to go.” She starts shoving boxes of chocolate underneath her desk. She must have an early meeting.

  “I’ll go if you promise to read the plan I’ve put together and go over it with me tomorrow.”

  She pauses in her candy cleanup. “You want me to go over your plan?”

  I go with the truth.

  “You like plans. You like to know where things are going. So I made one for us.”

  Honestly? What I want is for her to go out on a date with me. Make love with me. Ride with me, fight with me, love me. It’s that last part of the plan that’s most important.