by Nikki Sloane
“Ah, no.” The man smiled and checked his watch. “He should be here any minute.”
Okay, I was in the right place, but where were the chairs and the different designs on the wall? How the hell was I going to pick something without options? My gaze slid away from the patterned metal sculpture as I struggled against the unease. The worry about the needle and the pain was a thick sludge, churning in my belly.
The faster this Silas got here, the faster I could get through the tattoo. I hated this jittery, agitated feeling. Weak. “Do you have some designs I can look at while I wait?”
The man blinked at the question, like the request was bizarre. “Uh, no, he doesn’t work like that.”
A deep rumble grew from beyond the glass storefront, and I turned to face it. The sleek, black custom bike that pulled up to the curb carried a man who was built like a linebacker. He parked, shut off the motor, and proceeded to climb off.
Tall. Wide. Although he wore a leather jacket, I could tell his arms were thick and powerful. The jacket hung open and displayed the tight gray t-shirt that clung to a ridged stomach. He was a beast in human form. Intimidating, and maybe a little enticing.
Then, off came the helmet.
Sweet Jesus.
His soft brown hair was buzzed tight on the sides, and left long on top in an undercut. A hand pushed it back, instinctively correcting the helmet hair, revealing the face beneath it. I’d never used the word gorgeous to describe a man.
Not until now.
The helmet was stowed on the bike, and he strolled to the front door, pushing his way through. It had to be the nerves swirling inside me that caused this reaction. A strong build and a chiseled jaw typically only held a surface appeal to me. My brain would tick the box, noting that the male was attractive, and I’d focus elsewhere. But now I could only stare at his perfect blue eyes and long lashes that contrasted the hard, defined frame of his body. One that had been toned like a warrior.
The man peeled his jacket off as his gaze locked with mine and his movements slowed, as if distracted.
“This is your appointment,” the assistant said. “Regan.”
“Hey.” The voice from this wall of a man was surprisingly gentle. “Nice to meet you. I’m Silas Getty.”
A black, patterned tattoo extended all the way down his left forearm.
Oh my God.
He had enormous arms. All of my training and technique wouldn’t last five seconds against his brute power if Silas wanted to take me out. It should have made me nervous, but that section of my worry was already occupied with the impending needle, and my stomach twisted awkwardly. Why the hell did I want to wrap my hands around those thick biceps? Set my palms against his hardened chest and ridged abs that his t-shirt clung to?
“I’m Regan Wilson.” Good God, it came out uneven. Get it together.
It didn’t happen. Instead I stared at his offered hand like it was holding a gun on me. He wanted a handshake, and I finally forced my body to comply, slipping my hand into his rough one.
“How do you know Joseph?” His grip was confident but not overbearing.
“I work for him. Well, worked.”
“Which club?” Silas’s pale blue eyes tightened their focus.
The blindfold brothel used a private, exclusive wine club as a front for their illicit activity. “His members-only wine club.”
The hand on mine went rigid and drew back at the same time his expression seemed to fall. “I figured. You have that look about you.”
My tone was sharp. “What kind of look?”
What was this emotion on his face? Disappointment? The jacket was passed to the assistant with a thanks from Silas, and the man disappeared to a back room.
Silas put his hands on his hips, emphasizing his hulking form. “All of Joseph’s girls are beautiful. It’s important when you’re selling that kind of . . . wine.”
So, he knew what business Joseph had really been in. I fought to process that Silas thought I was beautiful, but also a prostitute. “I don’t sell my wine.” My words were clipped. “I just broker the deals for the women who choose to.”
One eyebrow curved up. He didn’t believe me. Fine, this would make it easier. I could focus on my annoyance, rather than my body’s odd reaction to him. My heartrate was too fast, and my breathing hurried.
“All right.” His voice was quiet.
For a long moment, neither of us said a word and we stared each other down. All the air had vanished from the large, open gallery space.
“Do you have some designs I can see, so I can pick something out?”
His shoulders snapped back. “No, I only do custom work.”
Had I just offended him? “I don’t need anything fancy. It’s not a big deal to me.”
Nope, I hadn’t truly offended him until that statement. His lips twisted into a scowl. “What do you mean it’s not a big deal? You don’t care about the art that’ll be on your body for the rest of your life?”
Oh. My face warmed. I’d been so nervous about the tattooing process, I’d forgotten to really think about the after. I was so stupid. “No, I’m sorry, I do care.”
Between the nerves and Silas putting me off balance, my brain was a mess. Why did he have to be so good looking? I bit down on the inside of my cheek.
“Look, I’m not really excited about needles,” I admitted, lacing my fingers together to stop my hands from making wild, anxious gestures. “I’ve been focused on that.”
“You don’t like needles, and the artwork’s not important. You sure you want a tattoo?”
“Yeah, I do.” It seemed pointless to dance around the reason, but it was still tough to say. “I’m hoping to cover a bad memory.”
“Cover a bad memory?” His curious gaze passed over me, head to toe. His demeanor shifted and softened. “Like a scar?”
“Yeah, exactly like that. Is it doable?”
“Maybe,” he said. “It’ll hurt more on scar tissue, and the ink can shift. Lines will look blurry. Where is it?”
I tapped two fingers to the spot on my left shoulder, just below my collarbone. Silas stepped forward, invading my safe zone, and my breathing ratcheted up.
“I’ll need to see it.”
“Why?” I didn’t want to sound defensive, but it was unavoidable.
He didn’t react to my sharp tone. “I need to see how the skin looks, like if it’s puckered or raised. Surgical scar?”
“No.”
He waited patiently for me to move or say something. He peered down, and under his intense stare, I felt jagged and exposed.
“You know I can’t tattoo you through your shirt, yeah?”
Without breaking his gaze, my fingers crept up, hooked under the neck of my top, and tugged it down off my shoulder. My throat closed. As Silas took in the pink, circular scar, he inhaled deeply and the question had to be on his lips, but he didn’t ask. All he did was evaluate.
Everything was so thick around us, it made my reaction time slow and I didn’t stop him. His large, calloused hand was set on the bare skin of my shoulder, slipping my bra strap to the side so he could better look at the scar.
I’d gone too long without sex.
His gentle, innocent touch seared across my nerves and turned my knees to rubber. I dragged air through my parted lips as his fingers trace the healed, uneven skin, and his action set me on fire. Desire wove between my legs and worked its way up.
“Jesus,” he said in a low voice. “What’s the story here?”
“It’s one I don’t like to repeat.” I attempted to yank the strap back in place, but his fingers wouldn’t allow it. They skimmed over the rise of my shoulder, venturing onto the other side, making me shudder.
“Let me see that one.”
I flinched. “No.”
“I’m not tattooing the exit wound?” His gaze sought mine and trapped it.
I dry swallowed, unable to find words, so I shook my head.
The bullet that tumbled through my bod
y had left a significant wound, but a much larger one which wasn’t visible. Roughened fingers grazed my skin as he gently grasped my shoulder. Goddamnit, couldn’t he see what his touch was doing to me?
“Okay, Regan.” Hearing my name in his deep voice made my situation dire. Unwelcomed lust poured in my veins. “Any ideas on what you’d like me to cover your bad memory with?”
His fingers twitched, and I jumped as if shocked. Once again, I could only muster a headshake. This cowering, timid woman had to go, but I couldn’t evict her while connected to him. His hand lingered on my skin, sparking waves of electricity downward, and goosebumps raised on my flesh.
“What do you say we cover it with a good one?” The icy blue eyes blinked slowly. “What’s one of your favorite memories?”
I scrambled, desperate to find something in my blank mind. He’d reduced me to a total idiot, because the first thing to pop up was the night in college I’d walked home drunk from a bar with my best friend, and we fell into a bush. Seriously, brain? You fucking suck.
“Graduating from college.”
He paused. “That’s an accomplishment, not a memory. Go for something that’s more of a mental snapshot.”
I floundered. When was my last good memory? All I could see was Reno, so I dug back further. “Uh . . . the zoo.”
The side of his sexy mouth turned up in a half-smile, wordlessly urging me to go on.
“I was maybe seven at the time.” God, why was I telling him this? His hand was truth serum. “I spent the whole day badgering my father to buy me a snow cone. I was a whiny kid, and when my dad finally caved and did it, I accidentally dropped it on the ground.”
“This is a happy memory?” His voice had a hint of teasing.
“My older sister gave me hers immediately. I thought she was the greatest person in the world to do that.”
Holy God, his smile was a thousand-watt lightbulb, and my stomach clenched.
“So my whole family,” I continued, keeping my voice void of emotion, “sat on a bench in the shade of this big tree while I ate my sister’s snow cone. I felt loved and . . . happy.” I took a breath to even myself out. “Please don’t put a tattoo of a snow cone on me.”
He chuckled, his fingers eased away, and I missed their warmth.
“Tempting, but no.” He gestured toward the desk. “Come on, let me grab a pen. What kind of tree was it?”
“Oak? I don’t really remember. It was big.”
I followed behind Silas as he strolled to the desk, snatched up a pen, and dug a notepad out of his back pocket. The dark ink that covered his left forearm was an intricate pattern, traveling upward and disappearing beneath his sleeve. What did the rest of his tattoo look like? The arm flexed as he flipped the notebook open.
“Oh my God,” I said. Clearly I’d lost my mind and my manners, because I snatched the small, leather-bound book from his hands and paged through the designs. “Holy shit. These are amazing.”
He laughed and shot me a dubious look. “Okay . . . thanks.”
Intricate patterns done in pen. A couple kissing that was reflected in a puddle, sketched in pencil. “You don’t think these are good?”
The set of massive shoulders shrugged. “They’re fine.”
As I flipped through, I noticed jagged paper in the binding. “Some of the pages are missing.”
“Yeah, those ones were better.” There was an amused gleam in his eye as I continued to page through the drawings. “Go ahead, take your time.”
Shit. I closed the notepad and thrust it back toward him. “I’m sorry. I swear I’m not usually so rude.”
“You think wanting to look through my sketchbook and saying it’s amazing was rude?”
“I could have asked, rather than tear it out of your hands.”
He gave an easy smile. “If I had a problem with it, I could have stopped you.”
Desire corded tight around me, my body straining against its hold. I brushed a lock of hair back over my shoulder and feigned doubt. “Yeah, maybe.”
I was all over the place. Worried about the needle, off-balance and unconfident. And now . . . I was flirting. What the fuck?
Silas didn’t appear to mind as he leaned over the desk and began sketching in the book. I watched the long strokes of the pen as he drew, the image quickly taking shape.
“Wooden bench?” he asked. “What zoo was it?”
“Cincinnati.”
“Do me a favor. Look up some pictures in Google Images of the zoo and see if you can find a bench under a tree.”
I pulled out my phone and did as asked while he continued to draw. His strokes shortening and his hand moved rapidly, filling in the detail on the tree that was forming on the page. The zoo pictures loaded on my screen, but his sketching was distracting. I’d always found people with artistic talent intriguing, probably because my artistic ability amounted to exactly zero.
He had beautiful, skilled hands and I wanted them on my body. I’d had the one and his palm had sizzled against my skin. Imagine what two would do. I swallowed hard.
The drawing was abandoned when Silas noticed the images queued up on my phone. He took it, located whatever he was looking for, and studied the picture intently. Like a match had been struck, the page in his notebook was turned to a new one, the phone set on the desk, and his pen began again, this time at a frantic pace.
He wasn’t going to finish what he was working on? “What are you drawing now?”
There was no answer, and this drawing was smaller, so I couldn’t make it out over his hand’s furious movement.
“I sort of liked the tree,” I said quietly.
He almost grunted, scolding me. “The first draft is always shit.”
Did he think he was going to tell me what I liked? Because if so, that wasn’t going to work out so well for him. Abruptly the pen ceased, and as he stood back I got my first look. The circular pattern was reminiscent of a stained glass window. It was simple, yet striking.
“It’s pretty, but I don’t get it.”
The late afternoon sunlight from the front window angled across his face, lighting up the ends of the whiskers forming on his jawline. My breath caught as his warm gaze connected with mine.
“The armrest,” he said, handing my phone back to me. “It’s a mandala.” I stared at him, telling him I didn’t have a clue what that meant. “It’s like a geometric interpretation of the universe.”
My gaze drifted down to the screen and there it was. Black iron curled around the side of the bench. In the center was a round, simplistic shape that mimicked a sunflower with fat petals. Silas’s drawing was more modern and embellished, but the inspiration was undeniable.
My voice fell to a hush. “I love it.”
“Yeah?” He smiled genuinely. “Me too.”
My heart thudded in my chest, each thump sharper than the last. It was as if it hadn’t been working for a while and was trying to restart itself. Or perhaps break free from the ice.
The sketch was torn from the book and passed to me. “Make sure it’s what you want.”
My gaze studied the details of the decorative symbol, thrilled at how quickly he’d crafted it and how perfectly it worked. Pleasantly vague on the surface, but the meaning buried beneath. A secret, covering another secret.
And I knew exactly what I wanted. It wasn’t just the design. If this enormous, stunning man wanted to fuck me in the middle of his art gallery, I’d probably let him. Hard, and fast, and no strings was what I needed after last week. Would this artist’s creativity extend to sex?
All traces of Matt were gone from my life and I was anxious to get what I’d been craving. There wasn’t a wedding ring on Silas’s sexy hands. Fuck, please be single.
“It’s what I want,” I said, handing the drawing back to him. “It’s perfect.”
He peered at me, gauging my certainty, then glanced out the front window as if in thought. “Okay. Gimme a second, I’ll be right back.”
As he disappeared do
wn the side hallway, I wandered the room and admired his work. I didn’t know shit about art, other than it was subjective, but most of his stuff I liked. I paused, intrigued by a poster-sized canvas layered with different shades of red. It was like two shapes intertwined behind fuzzy glass.
“You like that one?” Footsteps approached and a huge shadow fell on the wall before me.
“What are they doing?” I asked. These shapes in the red fog were people . . . dancing?
His voice was light and curious. “What do you think?”
“Are you going to say my answer is a reflection of what I want to see? Because, honestly, it sort of looks like they’re fucking.”
He laughed, and it echoed beneath the vaulted ceiling. “If that’s true, don’t worry. I see it too.”
I glanced up at him, and the moment our gazes met I almost burst into flames. I fought back the urge to tear my clothes off and climb on him. An expression lingered on his face that said he’d be okay with it.
The tension was thick and it seemed neither of us could find words.
Finally, he spoke. “What do you think your boyfriend would see in my painting?”
“Pardon me?”
“I’m asking about your boyfriend.” His voice was casual. “It’s because I’m curious if you have one, but I’m too subtle to ask.”
My smile leaked out before I could play it cool. “Oh, I see.” A warm tingle built at the base of my spine. “I don’t know. I don’t have a boyfriend. My last one lacked your . . . subtlety.” I noticed the jacket and helmet in his hands. He’d stowed his helmet on the bike. “Who’s that for?”
His fingers drummed on the hard shell. “You, if you’re up for it. My friend’s tattoo place is in Lakeview.”
The mere thought of climbing onto the bike and wrapping my arms around his waist sent heat blasting through me. My knees pinched together. “You can’t tattoo here?”
“No, I don’t have any of the equipment. I used to work out of my friend’s shop when I needed steady pay, but now I only do ink as a favor. I called him and he said we could come by.”
“Favor,” I repeated.
Silas thrust the helmet at me. “Yeah. Joseph gave me a heads up you might call.”
