by Kira Blakely
“I already have.” I grinned.
“You’re incorrigible. Don’t you think about what that might do to people who care about you? What if you died or broke your back or—”
I placed my finger against her lips. Had to be my hands-down favorite thing to do with her. To silence her for a few minutes and watch waves of desire shudder outward from the point of contact. “Nobody cares about me,” I said. Not since my mother had passed when I was a kid.
“That’s not true,” she whispered.
I let go of her and turned, walked over to the mini-bar in the corner, dragged open the door, and reached for a beer. “We can do the TV Show,” I said. And it was already too much of a concession. She’d think it was a little victory in her Margot world. The one where everything fit into safe little boxes.
“What?” The joy in that question almost made the concession worth it. “Are you serious? Cain, you’re serious?”
“You can’t make the decision without me, so I’m giving this one to you,” I said. “We can do the show.”
“Why?”
I straightened and cracked the beer, then offered it to her. She shook her head, so I slurped some instead, enjoyed the fizz down the back of my throat. “Nobody ever tell you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?”
“Cain.”
“Because if I do this, and do it well, everyone will see what a good boy I am at heart,” I said, and fluttered my eyelashes at her theatrically. I downed the rest of the beer, then crushed the can in my fist, aimed at the trashcan next to the fridge, and tossed it in with a clang.
“So, that’s what’s in it for you.”
“If you think there are any selfless acts left, you’re wrong.” I grinned at her. It was a risk—if I fucked it up, everyone would see. But if I played nice, I’d score major brownie points with Begay.
“When it comes to you, I don’t doubt it,” Margot replied.
“You happy now, Margot?” I asked. I walked across the space that separated us, then closed in because feeling her body heat was an addiction. “You’ve got what you want. You get to have your TV show. Maybe you’ll see that executive again. He’s your type, isn’t he? That tie-wearing motherfucker with the suits and the cute hairstyle. Pretty boy.”
She raised her chin. “Maybe he is.” But a tiny laugh escaped her lips. “No, he’s not. No one is.”
“Except for me.” It wasn’t a question. It was a simple fact.
We’d had nothing but a friendship growing up, and even that had been on the rocks, but only because all the tension between us that was definitely not “friendly” had boiled over into anger.
We couldn’t fuck so we fought. Simple.
And why couldn’t we fuck? Because doing that would risk something much worse.
“No.” Margot shook her head, and that bun loosened a little, a few strands of hair fell free.
“No, what?” I asked.
“No one’s my type. My type is the tattoo parlor. That’s it.”
“Interesting fetish.”
“It’s not—”
I reached up and loosened her hair. It fell around her heart-shaped face, framing it for me.
“I don’t do love. That’s what I’m saying,” she whispered, eyes flicking back and forth in her skull.
“Who said anything about love?” I asked, and ran my fingers over her collarbone, up her throat. I cupped her cheek.
She squeezed her eyes shut and tensed up. “Cain,” she said. “Cain, I’m not interested in anything with anyone. I have responsibilities.”
“You have a life too.” I brought my nose to her cheek and ran it back and forth over that soft-as-silk skin. Pale, smelling lightly of coconut. A little island of paradise. What would it be like to have her at last?
She’d resisted my charms for long enough. Growing up, she’d wanted me so bad she’d avoided me. She’d ignored me every chance she’d gotten until I’d started working at the shop, and all the heat in her eyes had tortured me day after day.
Margot let out a minuscule whimper and leaned in to my touch.
“Careful,” I growled. “You don’t know what you’re going to get, sweetheart. I’ll change your fucking life forever.”
She stepped back immediately, and I let my hand fall. “I’m not your sweetheart, Cain. I’m your business partner.”
My gaze dropped to her shirt, to the nipples pricking at the fabric, begging for release. Begging for my lips. “I know,” I said.
She crossed her arms. “I’m leaving.”
“You’d better,” I replied, and flicked my fingers toward the exit.
“Excuse me?” Tell Margot what to do, and she did the opposite. We were alike in that sense, at least.
I gestured to my crotch, to the length of pipe pressing against the jeans, demanding attention, and she dropped her gaze to it, gasped, and went that lovely rosy pink—as pink as her pussy lips would be.
“I need some alone time,” I said and flashed a grin at her.
She didn’t move a muscle. Margot bit her lip and stared at me.
“Off you go,” I said and gestured to the door.
She took a faltering step in my direction instead, then put her hands out as if she’d met a physical barrier. Her focus shifted up and down, from my dick to my lips and back again.
I let out a low laugh. If she thought this was how we’d do it for the first time, she was sorely mistaken.
Here? In a hotel room? After talking business?
“Margot, what are you still doing here?” I unbuttoned the top button of my jeans. Why not fuck with her mind a little, while we were at it? “I told you to leave. When I speak, you listen.”
She grunted. A flash of defiance, but the color stayed in her cheeks.
“What do you want?” I asked, though I knew exactly what she wanted. Of course, I did. I had since the day she’d first seen me pick up the tattoo gun. “Me.”
She flinched.
“That’s what you want. Me. Isn’t it, Margot?” I didn’t unzip further, just tilted my head to one side. Fuck, it was cruel to tease, but after the way she’d teased me for fucking years, by her mere existence, goddamn, it was fun. “You want to watch me come? Is that it? You know I’ll be thinking of you while I do it. Watching you, imagining how you taste, how your tight cunt would feel wrapped around me. Pulsing as you climax. Squeezing me for every last drop. Hungry for me. Desperate.”
Margot let out a tiny squeak. How long had it been for her?
I’d heard through the grapevine she’d had some low-life boyfriend a year back, but not any of the details. Doubtlessly, he hadn’t given her what she deserved in any sense. Certainly, not one night that would change her fucking perspective on life as she knew it.
“You want a choice, gorgeous? Fine,” I said. “Stay or go.” It was yet another impulsive decision on my part, but this… I wouldn’t have done something like this with anyone else. I wouldn’t have teased like this. Usually, I took and gave what was needed. “Do you want to see my thick cock? I’m hard for you, Margot. Just for you.”
“Oh god,” she groaned, and shivered, focus glued to the front of my jeans.
She needed to see it. She needed it like she’d never needed anything else.
“All you’ve got to do is say the word. Tell me you want me. Tell me exactly how you want it, and I’ll give it you.”
Margot bit down so hard on that luscious bottom lip, it paled beneath the pressure. She held back hard. If she thought it would change everything, she was absolutely right.
I buttoned up my jeans.
“What are you doing?” Margot asked, her voice cracking.
“Time’s up,” I said and walked back to the fridge, still sporting the biggest boner I’d had in my entire life. “You took too long to decide. Next time you want something, step out of your comfort zone. You’ve got to seize your fucking opportunities, Margot. Excuse the pun, ha.” I braced a palm on top of the minibar and eyed her.
The rednes
s that spread up her throat had nothing to do with nerves now. “Good night, Cain,” she said, through gritted teeth, then marched past me and toward the door.
“So civilized,” I called out, without watching her leave. Fuck, that peach-shaped ass was too much—I’d explode if I caught a glimpse now. “I’ll be thinking of you, Margot.”
The door clicked closed behind her.
I gripped my cock through my jeans and growled low.
This woman would be the death of me. Holding back would be the death of me.
But Margot deserved more than a quick fuck in a hotel room.
She’d always had, and it’d always been more than I could give her, simply because I had nothing left inside to give.
Chapter 6
Margot
Today was the first day of filming, and I’d never been as nervous in my entire life.
It wasn’t enough that there was a cameraman floating around, a producer on site, and that Guy Simmons had decided to hang out to see how things ran the first day. No, that was nothing compared to the fact that Cain had shown up to work in a sleeveless shirt.
His arms were fucking… they were… oh my god. They were strong and tatted-up, and he smelled of man and cologne.
I leaned on the counter in reception and looked through our appointments book, checking who had booked what and when. Natalie was next to me, her focus solely on Cain as he spoke with the cameraman in the opposite corner.
“That man,” Nat whispered, and twirled a strand of purple hair around her index finger. “He’ll be the death of me. I mean, that shirt is enough to give any woman a heart attack, am I right?”
“I hadn’t noticed,” I said through gritted teeth.
Nat snorted to show me what she thought of that.
That being a total lie.
I swept my gaze from the list of names and times and skipped it over to Cain.
All the humiliation I’d felt the other night when he’d nearly stripped in front of me, when he’d talked to me in ways I’d only dreamed of, came rushing back.
He caught sight of me looking and directed another of his shit-eating grins my way.
I dismissed him by shifting back to my task.
“OK, so we’ve got quite a few clients today,” I said, clearing my throat in the process. Don’t think about his jeans. About his dick. About the fact you’ve never had an orgasm with a man, and he almost gave you a goddamn spontaneous one in the hotel room a couple nights ago. Just from words.
Oh god, oh god. “This might be a challenge.” I tapped one of Cain’s appointments. It was the first part of a sleeve for a regular customer, and he’d indicated he wanted a pretty intricate sketch of the yin-yang symbol entwined with a Tree of Life. I was all for a challenge, but Cain? The last time he’d attempted something like this had to have been right out of high school, before he’d left the shop.
“Cain, can I speak to you for a—” I looked up and swallowed. He was already right in front of me, across the desk. Nat had practically gone cross-eyed. “There you are.”
“Here I am,” he said and winked.
“I—I was looking at this appointment with Gary,” I said, and tapped it. “Are you sure you’re OK doing this? I mean, it’s a big deal.” The cameraman appeared behind Cain, already filming. God, this would take some getting used to. “I can take it if you want.”
“Purple girl,” Cain said, and nodded to Nat. “Pass me my sketchbook.”
Nat almost fell over getting to Cain’s wooden cubby against the crimson wall. She returned with his book, and he took it from her, nodded thanks. He opened it and flipped through until he reached the correct page, then tapped twice on the image.
“That good enough for you, Ms. Reed?” Cain asked.
I bent and studied the drawing, and lost my breath.
It was so intricate, the pencil strokes so fine and sharp, each line or curve filled with self-expression. The Tree of Life punctuated both sides of the symbol, dark on one side, light on the other, and the branches and roots met the sides of the circle, twined around them.
“Wow,” I whispered.
Cain snapped the book shut, and I jumped. “I think we’ll be fine,” he said.
“Yes, thank you.” I was stiff all over.
Cain spun on his heel and walked off, trailing a sense of what? Anger? I couldn’t place it, and I couldn’t fathom how that drawing had come from the man walking off, all broad-backed and strong.
The cameraman followed him.
I shook my head.
Cain was good, but I’d never thought of him as imaginative or artistic, at least not after he’d changed. He was cocky and impulsive, and out to get his. He wasn’t supposed to be the guy who could express himself, not even in this way.
But I was wrong.
Maybe I’d boxed him where he shouldn’t be.
“Good morning, Margot.” The smooth voice broke my reverie.
For the second time, I cleared my throat and looked up.
Guy Simmons walked across the wooden boards toward me, smiling big. “I hear good things about filming this morning. No trouble,” he said.
“None,” I replied. But the day had only just started.
“But the day just started,” Guy said, echoing me out loud. “Listen, this is going to be a great pilot, but we need to make it worthwhile.”
“How do you mean?” I asked, and stepped around the reception desk. I didn’t take him through to the office, but it totally wasn’t because Cain had been frustrated the last time I’d taken Guy into a private room.
Guy glanced past me at Nat, who sat on her stool, paging through a magazine.
“Nat, could you go get me a cup of coffee or something? And one for Guy too, please.”
“Yeah, sure. Do you want me to do your laundry while I’m at it?” Nat heaved herself up regardless and gave Guy a special Nat smile. Good god, the woman had to be hard up. She flirted with everyone. She trundled off and left us in relative peace.
“I like her,” Guy said, and nodded after my receptionist. “She’ll add some sass to the program. So, this is what I wanted to talk to you about. We want this show to be addictive. It’s going to mingle pain, art, pleasure, the works. Obviously, we want some tension, but not too much. People like a little conflict, but they like it when it’s all neatly boxed and not out of control.”
Cain was the definition of “out of control.”
“What are you saying?” I asked, and braced myself for it.
“Well, that we might need to script some of this.”
I quirked the corner of my mouth upward.
Guy laughed and patted the air, as if that would calm me down or change my mind. “Now, I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not as bad as it sounds.”
“It’s exactly as bad as it sounds.” Cain’s voice always shocked me. It was gruff and warm, and it sent a shiver right down my spine, even though I didn’t want a shiver down my damn spine.
His boots scraped across the floorboards, and he halted beside me, those biceps straining as he crossed his arms. “Scripted,” he said, as if he’d pronounced a death sentence upon Guy.
“That’s right.” Guy forced a smile, but the tension between these two dudes was unmistakable. They were totally opposite. Guy with his suit and his perfectly combed hair, his cheesy exec smile and clean-cut handsomeness.
He was the type of guy to bring home to Mom. The type you found out had a secret foot fetish or something else nasty later on down the line. He reminded me of Steven, my ex.
And then there was Cain, who was all grit and muscle and that bad-boy “I’ll steal your girl” vibe. He didn’t take shit. He didn’t take kindly to pretenders, either, and he probably saw Guy in that light.
“I thought you were interested in Get Ink’d as is,” I said.
“We are,” Guy replied, and pressed the cheesiness in my direction. “But we’re looking for a solution that will make everyone happy. The viewers at home and the folks at SBC.”
“Folks like you.” Cain ran his thumb along his jaw and the rough beard there.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Guy continued, without so much as looking in Cain’s direction. “We don’t want to script everything, only certain parts. If we don’t, it’s more likely that the viewers won’t like the pilot, and that could lead to the network pulling the plug on the show altogether. And we wouldn’t want that.”
“No,” I said, and shook my head. “But—this type of thing is, I don’t know—”
“Sleazy.” Cain’s biceps twitched.
Don’t look. Don’t look. If I did I’d wind up staring at him open-mouthed like my drool-slathered receptionist.
“It doesn’t feel genuine,” I said. “And I don’t like feeling disingenuous.”
“Same.”
Cain and I agree on something for once. Go figure.
Guy let out a sigh. “A lot of people feel that way at first, of course, but you’ve got to understand that TV is different from the real world.”
“No shit.”
Guy ignored Cain again. “And you don’t want those two worlds to mesh. If they do, things can get unnecessarily complicated for all parties involved.”
“I need to think about this before I make a decision,” I said.
“We make a decision.” Cain let his arms fall at his sides, and the backs of his knuckles grazed mine.
“Right.” It still grated at me that it was a “we” now. Cain’s father had never taken a personal interest in the shop. He’d only cared that he received money back on his investment, and in recent years, that hadn’t been happening all that regularly.
“That’s fine,” Guy said. “I would tell you to take as long as you need, but this is kind of a rush. We already have a writer working on a script for you guys. Something that you’ll really enjoy. Call me after work today, Ms. Reed. We’ll talk about it in more detail later.” He shook my hand, holding it a little too long, and a little too gently, then made for the exit.
The door slapped shut behind him, and Cain let out a low growl. “That guy’s a total fuckhead.”
“And here I was thinking you were judgmental,” I said, and walked back to the reception desk. We’d open in approximately twenty minutes with our first appointment, a standard wrist tattoo—lettering.
