Inked Destiny

by Strong, Jory

Versace, hearing his name, got off the bed and pranced over to Jahna. She pushed her chair back and the Chinese Crested jumped onto her lap.

  Gray skin with a smattering of pink patches, bald except for hair on his head, feet, and tail, he was a little king sitting on his throne. Cute, Quinn’d give him that, though petting him felt like touching a hot worm.

  “I do have some availability,” Jada said, taking on an accent to go with a jewelry designer to the stars persona, “if you’re interested in commissioning me, for say, an engagement ring or something.”

  Quinn’s pulse sped up in a rush of anxiety over the conversation he hadn’t yet had, the big reveal that the special someone they would meet, soon, was male. He needed to do it. Hell, in his heart, he knew they’d accept it and move on, but finding the right time…Hard to do with the worry over his dad’s health.

  “Let’s just stick with or something. A piece for your mom, say, for Christmas. I’ll talk to Dad and see if he’ll throw in with me.”

  Quinn’s throat tightened, an ache spreading through his chest with the possibility his dad wouldn’t be there for Christmas.

  No! No! No! Positive thoughts only!

  Derrick’s imagined voice cut through the fear and worry, bringing with it a surge of possessiveness and a whole lot of discomfort at not having line of sight on him. Not new feelings, but he was coping and it helped knowing Derrick was at work and safe at Stylin’ Ink.

  “Got any suggestions about what she might like?” Quinn asked.

  “Come with me.”

  He followed Jahna to the stairwell. She freed Versace when he struggled in her arms, indicating his desire to see what was happening downstairs.

  “Mom, can I show Quinn your jewelry?”

  “Make it quick. The table needs to be set.”

  “Okay.” She turned to Quinn. “There is a price for this consultation, you know.”

  “My sister the shark.”

  She touched the side of her head. “I will be working up here while you set the table.”

  “Ever heard of multitasking?”

  “Ever hear of prioritizing? Christmas is not that far away.”

  He put his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’ll do the heavy lifting while you think.”

  “So not funny.”

  He laughed and followed her to the master bedroom. There were several old-fashioned jewelry boxes on the dresser, yard sale finds his father had restored.

  Jahna went to the one at the far right, lifting the lid and filling the room with the sound of music. “These are her best rings. If you’re looking for the cheapest option, we could go with turquoise and silver. She doesn’t have anything like that.”

  “Say money is no object.”

  “As if.”

  “So young. So cynical.”

  Jahna shot him a scowl, ruined by a giggle an instant later. “I am trying to help you.”

  She dropped the lid, silencing the music. “Okay. Real deal here. While you were gone Mom inherited an amazing necklace. I’m thinking a companion piece to it, probably a bracelet and definitely some earrings.”

  Instead of opening a second jewelry box, she pulled the top dresser drawer out and stepped away. The sparkle and glitter grabbed his attention and held it. But it was only a short burst of infatuation lasting until she said, “Guess which one.” Causing his eyes to seek and find, and the moment he did, he caught himself wanting to steal it.

  Jesus! Where did that come from?

  “This one,” Jahna said, exasperation in her voice as she picked it up. He retreated when she held it out to him, sweat breaking out on his skin at just how loud, Mine, Mine, Mine pounded through his head like it’d become his heartbeat

  What the hell was wrong with him?

  “A companion piece sounds great,” he said, backing away another couple of steps. “I better get those dishes out.”

  He turned and fled.

  * * *

  You got any shit left?” Puppy asked.

  Sleepy glanced at the empty baggie next to the pipe. “Not right now. Maybe later. Let’s go over to Rosena’s place. I tell her you’re with me, maybe you’ll get a little pussy.”

  Puppy bounded out of his chair like a starving mutt, then slouched, pretending it was no big deal to fuck Rosena. Sleepy laughed, feeling good.

  His cell rang just as he got to his car. Drooler. “Yo, homie!”

  “Can’t talk man, my uncle’s on the warpath. I’m sending you a picture from the newspaper in the office. If something is going down, text me. I’ll say I forgot I’m supposed to meet up with my probation officer. Later, ese.”

  The buzz deserted Sleepy when he saw the picture. The guy they were supposed to off was standing next to Etaín. A mamacita like that wasn’t one to forget, and the two of them were in front of the shelter where Justine worked.

  Motherfuck. There was no tattoo book. That was bullshit.

  Sleepy slammed his hand on the car roof. Then hit it again, putting a dent in it.

  He’d been right. That Irish pendejo had made Lucky rat before killing him. Now he was going to return the favor.

  “Change of plans. You’re going to check out a place called Stylin’ Ink and see who’s there.” He tilted the phone so Puppy could look at the picture Drooler had just sent then flicked it back to the photo of Derrick. “One of these three people is going to talk. They’re going to tell us what went down with Lucky and where his body is. Then they’re going to die.”

  Twenty-one

  Etaín stood naked in front of the mirror that could be so much more than a mirror. The outfit she’d selected was tossed carelessly over the back of a chair despite its being every bit as expensive as the dress Eamon had produced the last time she was in his suite at Aesirs.

  “You’re sure a do-over is necessary?” she asked, her heart imitating surf pounding against the shore.

  Eamon stepped behind her, bare-chested and barefoot, the ink on his arms drawing her attention and banishing trepidation with a fierce surge of satisfaction.

  “A do-over is definitely required,” he murmured, hands cupping her breasts so they filled instantly with heat and need. “What is that saying you’re so fond of?”

  Tormenting lips captured an earlobe and sucked as fingers took possession of her nipples to tug and twist and squeeze, rendering her incapable of considering his question under the onslaught of pleasure.

  She closed her eyes on a moan of surrender. His hands stilled. He released her earlobe.

  “Watch or I won’t continue. Isn’t that what I was forced to do when we were here last?”

  “Payback is hell,” she said on a husky laugh. “Is that the phrase you’re looking for?”

  She lifted her arms and reached behind her to entwine her fingers in his hair, the gesture thrusting her breasts harder against his hands, a spellbinding erotic scene caught in the mirror. “I’m not sure this qualifies as hell. And you were the one playing hard to get that night.”

  Her channel clenched as she remembered his hunger and the heat of his gaze as she touched herself in the shower, as she made herself come while he watched.

  She ground bare buttocks against his trouser-covered erection and watched his face go taut. She was already flushed and swollen and slick, her cunt lips parted in invitation. She lowered her lashes in defiance and challenge, rubbing against the hard ridge of his erection. “Apparently playing hard to get is a game you enjoy. It’s a good thing you favor dark pants.”

  Eamon’s fingers tightened on her nipples as need pooled in his testicles and became a burning, pulsing demand in his cock. His mistake, in starting this, when he knew just how easily her actions created a fire in him that would only be temporarily quenched by the thrust and retreat and mindless release that came with taking her.

  She was as powerful as any of the multitude of sirens who’d once called this world home, before technology made it more difficult to lure sailors to their deaths in a great sacrifice of bodies to the sea. He wo
ndered just what he might sacrifice to keep her, what he might do if magic got the upper hand and killing her became the wiser action.

  He abandoned a breast, his hand descending in a slow glide over smooth flesh and sleek muscle. Her lips parted on a low moan, tongue darting out to moisten them in carnal invitation and a command that nearly rushed him to his destination. He resisted, measuring this moment against the memory of her in the shower, tormenting him with the caress of feminine hands to a feminine body, with the slick plunge of fingers into sultry depths and the swirl of them over her clit.

  Her hips jerked when he reached the engorged nub, and then his did when he found her wet, ready for him, her lower lips plump and parted. He abandoned the other breast in favor of freeing his cock, saw the flash of feminine triumph in her expression and nearly answered with a predatory smile of his own.

  “Put your hands on the mirror, Etaín.”

  She complied, far enough away from it so her upper body now angled forward and gave him an advantage she hadn’t counted on. Rather than sheath himself, he slid his cock between her thighs, stroking over swollen flesh and erect clit without allowing her the release of orgasm or the satisfaction of having him inside her.

  It wasn’t without cost.

  Each stroke was as much an agony of denial as it was a sensual victory. Each clamping of her thighs and spasming of her labia against him was a heated reminder of the ecstasy he was denying them both.

  Arousal beaded at the tip of his penis, pre-cum lubrication no longer needed given how thoroughly prepared Etaín’s readiness had made him. On a groan he surrendered, nearly coming as she tightened in a merciless demand for a fierce taking.

  Now their position worked to her advantage, giving her leverage to thrust backward and force him deeper, then deeper still. Until the ocean roared in his head, a powerful surge that left him helpless as his body followed suit in a hot rush of ecstasy.

  He placed a hand next to Etaín’s, the other one sliding around to her abdomen to keep her from moving so he could remain inside her. As the fog of satisfaction lingered, he triggered the spell bound in the mirror covering the wall, yielding to the desire to see what wearing her ink might mean for him.

  Color exploded beneath their palms and spread across the expanse in a swirling capture of power, a mix of elements that told him nothing about himself though the wild, unbound nature of the movements vibrated like a precursor to violence and made him want to take Etaín to the estate, willing or not.

  “Hoping to see the Dragon?” she joked.

  “Hardly.” He let the spell go and reluctantly pulled from her sheath, guiding her to the shower.

  A hand on his chest prevented him from joining her beneath the spray of water. “The tattoos shouldn’t get wet.”

  “Easy enough to prevent.” He modified a defensive spell so a shield formed to cover skin and ink. “One of the many benefits of magic.”

  “And this is another one?” she asked moments later, when water and the rub of her slick skin, the touch of her hand had him hard again, ready again.

  “A delay tactic, Etaín?”

  Her husky laugh might be acknowledgement or invitation. “And if it is one?”

  With strength unaided by magic, he lifted her and felt the ever-present thrill at her responsiveness when sleek legs wrapped around his waist, wet opening and hot female flesh made available for him. If he allowed it, she’d tease and torment before ultimately satisfying the fierce craving her presence in his life had created in him.

  “Put me inside you,” he ordered, voice a harsh whipping wind. “Or we’ll go downstairs without finishing this.”

  Desire was a flash of fire in her eyes, the promise of sexual retaliation in the future and one he looked forward to. She gripped his cock, obeyed, but on her own terms, allowing only inches into her slit, her hand a warden preventing him from escaping into complete ecstasy.

  He slammed his mouth down on hers, demanded she take him all the way in with the thrust of his tongue, with a hand going to her breast as he held her pinned to the shower wall. His fingers captured a nipple, pain in the pursuit of pleasure.

  The jerk of her hips and grind of her pelvis signaled her need for deeper penetration. It was a prelude that moments later had her freeing him, legs a tight clamp, holding all of him inside her as she clung, writhed, and finally came, the ripple and squeeze of her sheath a demand he answered with head thrown back and near violent release.

  “Delay it is,” he murmured, lingering in the shower, the strike of water against his skin a sensual refilling, the intimacy between them pouring into the wellspring of his soul. Desire reawakened when finally they left the shower, and she took her time dressing, making him envious of the clothing he’d purchased for her, making him fantasize about removing it in a fire-flash of magic.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  Etaín took his offered hand, remaining silent rather than lie. Ready? No. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be, but that didn’t change a damn thing.

  They rode the elevator to a lower floor. “A little detour,” he said, guiding her into what was clearly his office given the quality of the artwork. Extensive windows along one wall were a summons she couldn’t ignore. When she stopped in front of them, it wasn’t the view of San Francisco that drew her attention, but the private terrace below, every table occupied by the wealthy and powerful, with some of the famous thrown in for good measure.

  Not her world. Even when she’d lived with the captain, she hadn’t been a part of it. Physically present, yes, when she was young there hadn’t been a way to avoid it, but mentally, she’d learned at eight it was better to retreat. No knife was sharper than words wielded by jealous girls or hate-filled stepsisters, and for a time, she’d been vulnerable.

  Perhaps if she’d been a boy, or homely, but she’d been neither. And then the call to ink had come, and with it, unknown then to her, Elven allure, and that had only made things harder at school and at home.

  Eamon came up behind her, enfolding her in a hug and chasing away thoughts of the past. “You stepped through my wards on that first visit, interrupting my work and drawing me to the window. The moment I looked down and saw you, I knew you’d be mine.”

  “Despite the fact I was with Cathal.”

  “A minor complication.”

  “Fighting words if he heard you say them.”

  “Perhaps.” He touched his lips to her neck and she felt him smile as he added, “Probably.”

  A sucking bite followed, then another, and a third, before he sighed, murmuring, “You have a disastrous effect on my intentions.”

  She laughed. “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “Those who know me best would say yes.”

  “The bodyguards?”

  “And my second in command, Rhys.”

  Warm lips were replaced by the cool touch of a collar-like necklace.

  The switch didn’t go unnoticed.

  Like a heated charge of electricity down her arms and around her wrists, the alien awareness of the Dragon came, there long enough to determine no threat existed but even that was long enough to make her pulse beat against the collar like a prisoner against a cell door.

  Eamon’s mouth brushed her ear. “Relax, Etaín. It’s merely a piece of jewelry, something enhanced by your beauty, an item to complement the outfit, nothing more.”

  “You didn’t sense the flare of magic just then?”

  “I am always aware of your magic. It constantly twines with mine.” He kissed her neck. “But it was the rush of your heartbeat that gave your nervousness away. For you, perhaps it was accompanied by a different sensation. For changelings especially, emotion and magic are often experienced together.”

  A hand at her elbow guided her to an attached bathroom. Her breath caught at the sight of opals inlaid into an intricate twist of gold, dark stones that reminded her of the mirror with its captured fire and water.

  “And here I was worried about it being a studded dog collar
,” she said to mask a sudden nervousness at seeing a woman who looked like she belonged among the restaurant patrons, instead of one who enjoyed talking trash with clients and fellow artists.

  His tender smile made her heart flutter. “A studded dog collar? I’d worry your friend Bryce might decide to claim my gift if you happened to take it off at the shop.”

  Her eyes jerked upward to meet his, happiness spreading through her at what his words implied. “He does have his moments when he goes full punk. And his girlfriends almost always have the look.”

  “Then no studded dog collars for you.”

  Eamon touched his cheek to hers. “I’m tempted to return to the bedroom and strip you out of everything except for the necklace.”

  “I could be convinced that’s an excellent idea.”

  “If we return to the suite, you won’t meet anyone until tomorrow, especially if Cathal joins us.” He gave a small, teasing suck to her neck then stepped backward and snagged her hand.

  On the first floor the elevator door opened in a discreetly placed alcove between public area and private, as if occasionally humans were allowed deeper into Elven territory.

  Eamon guided her toward the back, the kitchen, she presumed, given the deepening scent of food and the cadence of called-out orders interspersed with status updates. A waiter passed, as enticing as the food he’d collected from the counter where it waited to be taken to diners.

  It occurred to her that all the Elves she’d seen at Aesirs were men. “Do you allow females to work here?”

  “Some.”

  “Why only some?”

  The question held an edge of militancy. She’d been lucky in her chosen profession. Her talent, her looks, and though she hadn’t been aware of it at the time, magic and Elven allure, meant she’d never experienced discrimination in the same way other female tattoo artists had. She’d brushed up against assholes, and men with a boy’s club mindset, but they’d held no power over either her advancement or her earning a good living.

  “Peace, Etaín, peace,” he said with a laugh. “I’m glad you so readily champion our females. Those who wish to serve here do so at one time or another.”