by R. K. Lilley
She was wearing tiny black cheer shorts that didn’t belong outside of a bedroom, and a black half-shirt that read ‘Fuck No.’ It left all of the skin bare from two inches below her naval to the top of her ribs, just covering her breasts. She wasn’t even wearing a bra.
My jaw went slack, my eyes glued to the sight.
She didn’t have huge breasts, but they were a handful, and they were fucking perfect, soft and pliant in my hands, and when real tits went braless, there was no mistaking it.
“Fucking no way in hell.”
“I can’t wear a bra after the tattoo, and the half-shirt makes it so I won’t have to take off my top for the cameras. Frankie told me exactly what to wear, and I’m wearing it, so wipe that Neanderthal look off your face.” As she spoke, she twisted her hair into a bun on top of her head, the shirt riding up, bearing the undersides of her breasts.
“Are you fucking serious?”
She rolled her eyes, completely blowing me off as she slipped into flip-flops.
“It’s important for me to be comfortable and properly prepared, Frankie says. If you can’t behave yourself, you are staying home.”
“Are you fucking serious?” I repeated. “I took a week off just for this, and you’ve had to postpone it for weeks, just so I could go with you.”
“So behave yourself if you actually want to come.”
I clenched my jaw to keep from arguing, counting to ten, my eyes glued to the front of her shirt.
“Fuck No?” I asked her.
“Frankie says it’s a great way to let the censors keep you modest. If my nipples are hard, they won’t pick it up, because they’ll already be blurring the word fuck. She loaned me the shirt.”
No shit, I thought. It was clearly a Frankie creation.
She moved to stand in front of me, hands on her sexy little hips. I reached up, palming her breasts with both hands. I closed my eyes, not quite managing to stifle a groan.
“We’re already late, Tristan, and the camera crew is on a tight schedule.”
My eyes snapped open to glare at her. I lifted her shirt that minuscule degree it took to bare her tits, cursing loudly and fluently as I leaned forward, framing her breasts in my hands and sucking one hard nipple into my mouth.
“I’m going to pin you to that table when she’s done with you and fuck your brains out.”
She gasped, and one of my hands snaked down, sliding into the waistband of her shorts to finger her. I yanked it out with a curse, using the leg of her shorts instead to ram my finger into her hard.
“If I can get at your pussy this easy, that’s a good sign that your shorts are too tiny.”
Her hips twitched, moving on my finger, and I went back to sucking on her nipple and working her on my finger.
I waited until she was close and pulled away, extricating my finger slowly, teasingly. “We’re late, boo. Remember? Tight schedule.”
She glared at me, backing away.
I grinned at her and winked.
I could barely keep my eyes on the road as we drove to Frankie’s tattoo parlor, glancing over at her every time she shifted on her seat.
She was jittery with excitement, and every movement, every twitch of her body was distracting in that barely there excuse of an outfit.
I fondled her with one hand until she moaned, trying to push my hand away.
“Quit teasing me,” she complained. “I don’t want to be turned on right now. It’s going to be hours before we can do anything about it.”
“Well, tough shit,” I told her, sending her a sidelong smile. “You know what that outfit is? It’s a tease. You’re only getting what you’re dishing out right now.”
She lifted her shirt, and my hand was suddenly kneading at her bare skin.
Fuck.
I glanced over.
She was folding the band of her shorts down, making them even tinier, and pulling the waistband open wide. She grabbed my hand and slid it down her body, cupping my hand over her sex, shifting until she could force one of my big fingers inside of her.
I yanked my hand away, and refused to look at her for the rest of the drive. As always, she’d won the teasing contest. She was the uncontested champ.
I should have known better than to go there.
I put my arm around her like the overprotective boyfriend I was as we walked through the casino, glaring at every asshole that stopped to stare at her.
“Fucking pinning you to that table as soon as she’s done. Going to fuck until we’re both fucking raw,” I muttered under my breath, making her giggle. I wasn’t even close to joking.
She tried to hug Frankie when we got to the shop, but I got in between them, giving Frankie a pointed look. “You talked her into wearing this, but you sure as hell aren’t feeling her up while she does it.”
Frankie just laughed.
Danika punched me in the shoulder.
I stood back, arms folded across my chest as the TV producer did a brief interview for the show about her tattoo. She blushed and giggled and told a little story about how she’d always loved cherry blossoms.
She was adorable, and I was counting the seconds until I could fuck her brains out again.
They did a lot of close-ups of the spot on her back where the ink was going. Frankie held up a square of paper that was about three by five inches, illustrating exactly where and how she planned to place her precise sketch of a cherry blossom branch, left of her spine, the top ending right where her shoulder blade started. It was beautiful, as I’d known it would be. Frankie’s work was always excellent.
I stood at Danika’s head, holding both of her hands for hours while Frankie worked, wanting to punch each member of the camera crew nearly every second of those hours.
The process was slow and fascinating. Watching Frankie work was always a treat, but watching Danika’s lovely back becoming even more exquisite with an intricate piece of art was an experience.
And of course, it turned me on.
Danika took the pain well. I’d crouch down to check her expression, and only occasionally were her eyes squeezed tight with pain. Mostly, they were clear and excited about seeing the results.
I took down her hair, stroked it, and even bent down to kiss her face when Frankie took the needle off for brief breaks while she switched ink, or wiped the area.
The final result was well worth the wait and the pain. Dark branches were painstakingly detailed and ended in pretty blossoms that went from myriad shades of pale pink, to magenta, to a bright red.
It was a feminine tattoo, perfect in every detail, just like its owner. She squealed in delight when she finally got a good look at it.
“Give her some privacy while she gets dressed,” I snapped at the crew when Frankie was finally done.
Frankie shooed them out, following behind. She gave me a rueful smile before she shut the door behind her. “I’ll blast some rock so you can have some privacy. I’d recommend you lock up after me.”
I locked the door, moving back to the table. Danika was already on her stomach, lying down, so all I had to do was twist her until she was sideways, her hips at the edge of the table, her feet not quite touching the ground.
“Get up on your elbows,” I told her, tugging off her shorts.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” she said breathlessly, rising up just enough to give me access to her chest.
“No one can say I didn’t give you fair warning.”
“Frankie knows exactly what we’re doing in here.”
No shit, I thought. “Nah,” I said. “You just needed a minute to straighten your clothes.”
“I don’t have that many clothes.”
“That’s the problem, now, isn’t it?” I slid my hands up her ribs, palming her bare breasts under that joke of a shirt.
I rammed into her, not stopping until my hips slammed hard against her.
She screamed, gripping the other edge of the cushioned table.
“Well, now she definitely kn
ows what we’re doing,” I rasped, pulling out slowly. I let go of her breasts, leaning back to watch my cock slide out of her slick entrance, cursing as her sheath gripped me tight, the curses turning into praise as I lunged back inside of her, hitting the end of her so hard it jarred us both, and she screamed again.
I bent back over her, speaking into her ear. “Did I hurt you, sweetheart?”
“No. More, Tristan, more. Fast. Please, please.”
I closed my eyes, the sound of her soft voice begging me about all I could take.
I was true to my word. I pinned her to that tattoo table and fucked her brains out.
I came so hard, my legs just about gave out, and I was shouting nearly as loud as she was screaming.
“You like that angle, huh?”
She mumbled something in the affirmative, laying her cheek on the table, looking like she was about to drift off.
I cleaned us both up with paper towels from the bathroom that adjoined the room, slipping her shorts back on her.
I had to pick her up and set her on the table to get her upright, and even then she leaned forward against me, her head on my shoulder. I copped a feel, completely powerless to keep my hands off her bra-free tits.
“Just remember, if you ever decide to wear something like this again, this is what will happen. You won’t be able to get anything done, because I won’t be able to stop touching you for more than seconds at a time.”
“I need a nap,” she said, sounding half-asleep already.
“I need inside of you again,” I said into her ear, already trying to work her shorts back over her hips.
Copping a feel had backfired in a hurry. My brainless cock had taken it to heart.
I fucked her sitting up that time, leaning her back on her hands so I could watch her round breasts bounce with every jarring thrust, her shirt pulled up to her neck.
Frankie knocked loudly on the door for that round, telling us to hurry up. I shouted loudly back for her to fuck off.
I pounded into Danika, growling, cursing, praising, all the while completely mesmerized by her naked chest. Something about having just the tops of her shoulders covered, and the rest of her bare, was turning me into a sex-crazed maniac.
Come to think of it, everything about her turned me into a sex-crazed maniac.
She moaned almost lazily as she came that time, squeezing me like a vise for torturous, drawn out moments.
I shouted and came, laid her back on her elbows, spread her legs wider, bringing her heels up to the table, and hard again, I pushed inside of her.
Again.
She was so slick, so full of me, and I groaned and cursed and rutted mindlessly in her until my legs wouldn’t hold me for another second.
I leaned forward on my elbows as I twitched and spurted inside of her, my face in her neck, and wondered if anyone would notice if we passed out on Frankie’s table for a few hours.
“You better clean up after yourselves, you nymphomaniac horndogs!” Frankie was shouting on the other side of the door.
Who knew how long she’d been shouting? Not me.
“I put Clorox wipes by the door, lovebirds!” she shouted, maybe five minutes later.
I blinked, wondered if I’d been sleeping, and then studied Danika, trying to figure out if she was sleeping. She was still managing to prop herself up on her elbows high enough not to lay directly on her fresh tattoo.
“I hope she doesn’t think we’re going to use those to clean ourselves,” I muttered, trying to find the strength to stand up straight.
“I think those are for her table that we desecrated,” Danika murmured, eyes still closed.
“And the floor! And the wall! And everything else you touched in there!” Frankie shouted.
“How about you work on getting thicker walls in here, Miss Nosypants?” Danika shouted back without missing a beat, her face still looking relaxed enough to be asleep.
I couldn’t help it. I laughed. Even nearly unconscious, she could manage to dish out sass.
CHAPTER NINE
DANIKA
I blew out my breath in a noisy sigh of frustration as we missed the step, yet again.
My dance partner, Preston, was a good sport about it, as usual. I’d worked with more experienced dancers, but I far preferred one with a good attitude. The guy never had a bad day.
“You wanna call it?” he asked with a smile, giving my fingers a little squeeze.
He knew better. I’d never be the one to call an end to a session. I always wanted to stay until we got the steps down right.
Our instructor strode into the room, took in our stances, and turned on his heel, moving directly to the stereo. I smiled when Mary J. Blige’s Family Affair came on. It was impossible not to dance to that song, or to stay in a bad mood when you heard it.
Anthony, our instructor, was at least forty, but still had a sexy older man kind of vibe, with salt and pepper hair, a slim but muscular build, steely gray eyes, and a hot Italian accent. He was also just plain nice, which went a long way with me.
I pulled away from Preston, loosened up my stance, and started dancing. Not the tango, just good old feeling it dancing.
Anthony moved closer, but not too close, moving his shoulders, twisting his hips. No Italian man had ever moved so well to MJB. The man had soul. Our sessions always ended like this, in a freestyle jam, so I knew we were done. His disposition, along with his talent, were what had attracted me to his dance studio. No matter what, I never wanted to stop doing this because I loved it, and I’d worked with people that forgot that part.
Tristan was out of town yet again, and so I went out for dinner and drinks with a group of dancers afterward, and, as was becoming the pattern, Preston wound up sitting next to me.
I was aware, in an uncomfortable sort of way, that he liked me as more than just a friend. He couldn’t have been further off my radar as far as that was concerned. I was a one man kind of woman.
But even if I had been single, I wouldn’t have gone out with him.
He was a good-looking guy, with light brown hair, and hazel eyes. His build was very slender, and he was a few inches shy of six feet. I’d developed a very marked taste for huge men that towered over me and had biceps like tree trunks. Tristan had officially ruined me.
The group stayed and talked for hours. I drank sparingly. I hadn’t been much of a drinker since Jared’s death. It had served as a wake-up call for me. I was not immune to the pitfalls of vice.
Addiction was hereditary, and it was in my blood, so I knew that I had to be more careful than most to avoid its trappings.
We were at a college bar across the street from campus, and it had a dance floor. There were eight of us, all dancers, and so of course we danced.
I had fun. It was nice to go out with new people, with fresh faces and carefree smiles.
I found myself texting Frankie, telling her to come out and join us.
Frankie: To a college bar? Do you have any idea how old I am?
I thought about it. No, I did not.
Danika: No, I don’t. How old are you?
Frankie: I am twenty-seven.
Danika: That’s not even old.
Frankie: It’s too fuckin old for a college bar.
Danika: It’s fun. Come on.
Frankie: How long are you going to be there?
Danika: I don’t know. Depends on if you come hang out with us.
Frankie: Fine. I’ll be there in thirty, but if I spot any sorority girls, I’m outta there.
I was dancing with Preston when I caught sight of Frankie in the crowd near the bar.
I squealed, rushing to her.
She smiled when she saw me. We hugged, but she kept looking over my shoulder. At Preston, I thought.
She reaffirmed my suspicion in short order. “Who is, uh, that guy?” she asked, pointing.
I knew whom she was referring to, since I’d just been dancing with him, but I followed her finger to look.
“That’s Pres
ton. He’s my ballroom dance partner at the studio. Super nice guy.”
“And you’re, like, out with him?”
My eyes narrowed at her chastising tone. “I’m out with seven other dancers. There’s a whole group of us.”
“But you were dancing with him.”
“He’s my dance partner. It seemed like a pretty normal thing to do.” I found myself getting defensive.
“How do you think Tristan will feel about that?” she asked, her tone bland, the pointed arch to her eyebrow, not so much.
“Tristan is crazy when it comes to me and other guys. Do you think I should cater to crazy?”
She gave me a look that should have been reserved for disapproving mothers. “How would you feel if you found out that Tristan was going out to clubs with the band and dancing with other woman while he’s in L.A.? That’d be fine with you?”
I mulled it over, and finally got her point. I’d hate that. Really hate it. Yes, I was dating crazy, but I had apparently fallen from the same crazy tree.
“But he’s my dance partner. We have to practice. I can’t give up dancing for Tristan. That wouldn’t be healthy.”
“Agreed, but how ‘bout you keep it to the studio? That’s seems to me to be a far cry from dirty dancing in the club.”
“How do I know Tristan isn’t going out and dancing with other girls? He could be doing that or worse every night. I’d have no clue if he was or wasn’t.”
“You know because I’m telling you. He’s a good boyfriend to you, and he wouldn’t do that. He’s very, very careful not to step out of line. Show him the same respect.”
She had a point, and I suddenly felt like shit. “I wasn’t dirty dancing, and this isn’t a club,” I pointed out.
She gave me a head to toe once over, giving my exposed stomach a pointed look. “Shaking your hips in that outfit is dirty dancing, period.”
I pointed to her half-shirt. “Don’t you dare knock my outfit. You’re baring more skin than you’re covering.”
“Well, I am single. World of difference.”
