Tyler & Stella (Tattoo Thief)

by Tretheway, Heidi Joy

  I hear Tyler tossing and turning too. His feet hit the floor near me and I jump.

  “Stella. You can’t sleep there.”

  I frown, hurt. Is he going to kick me back downstairs?

  “Get up.” As soon as I’m sitting, he grabs my pillow and plops it on the bed. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  I balk. “You can’t. It’s your home, and the air from the fan barely reaches the floor. You’ll be miserable.”

  Tyler looks stricken. “You’re miserable?”

  “It’s better than being homeless,” I mutter.

  “Sit here,” Tyler commands. I obey, perching on the edge of the bed. “You’re sleeping here tonight. The fan is just moving hot air, but at least the mattress is comfortable.”

  I lie down on my pillow, carefully avoiding getting anywhere near the middle of the bed. Tyler lies back too, his eyes open and focused on the ceiling.

  “See? It’s not much better.”

  Dim light from the city filters through Tyler’s windows and sweat glistens on his skin. I’m still far too hot to sleep comfortably. “Thank you anyway.”

  Suddenly, he sits up and a big grin lights his face. “I have an idea!” He gallops downstairs and I hear him opening cupboards and rattling something. When he returns to the bedroom, he has a wide, stainless steel bowl filled with ice.

  “Swamp cooler,” Tyler tells me. “My mom and I didn’t have air conditioning in our apartment, so we rigged up a fan and ice and it worked pretty good.” He positions the ice in front of the fan and I might be imagining it, but the air seems cooler.

  “Would you hand me an ice cube, please?” I ask. Even if the swamp cooler doesn’t do much, at least I can use the ice to cool off.

  Tyler hands me one and takes one himself, rubbing it on the back of his neck and then stepping in front of the fan.

  “I like the direct approach,” I say, skimming the ice cube down my arms and along my collarbone. “The swamp cooler is good, but this works better.”

  Tyler sits on the bed as I rub the ice cube on my body. “I like the direct approach, too.” His voice is low, rasping. He mimics my movements on his own body and his melting ice cube sends little rivulets of water down his chest.

  The energy in the room shifts in a tidal wave and I’m suddenly hyperaware of Tyler.

  We sit on opposite sides of the bed in the faint light, watching each other as the ice cubes melt. We bathe in the fan’s breeze and I look at Tyler, cataloging every micro-expression, every small twitch on his face and curve of his lip.

  I see the cowlick on his forehead that never lays down straight, his dark lashes fringing mahogany eyes, and the cords on his neck that connect to strong shoulders.

  The intimacy of this is too much. We’re too close, yet we’re not touching. Is that what makes this connection OK with Tyler? Does he simply not want to touch me? He’s touched me before—my gross feet, my shredded knees. Maybe he can handle that touching because he doesn’t feel that way for me.

  But Tyler’s expression suggests otherwise, his eyes hooded and his pupils nearly black. I want to believe I’m seeing desire, but I’m afraid to say a word. I just stare at his body and let him see mine.

  My thin tank top is pale blue cotton and it soaks up too much water. It sticks to my skin and I’m sure Tyler can see my nipples through it. I pretend I don’t notice and I let him hand me another ice cube. I sit cross-legged, facing him as he skates the ice past his pierced nipple.

  I gasp and Tyler’s gaze is immediately focused on me.

  “Lie down, Stella.” I don’t even protest. I can’t overthink this simple command that is everything I want and need right now.

  I lie back and close my eyes as Tyler picks up an ice cube. He starts with the inside of my wrist, holding my hand in his, palm side up. I yield to him, giving permission. Hell, I’d give him an all-access pass if he would just take it.

  But he doesn’t. He won’t. Instead, he draws maddening circles and lines across my body with the ice. My neck, my shoulders, my collarbone, my cleavage. When I feel a small tug at my waist, I lean forward and let him pull the soaking tank top off of me.

  But I still can’t look in his eyes.

  Tyler lets the ice cube wander up and down my stomach, between my breasts but not touching them. I feel him shift his own body next to me, from sitting to lying on his side, and he traces lazy circles on my skin. He reaches low to my knee, then slides the ice cube up my thigh and down again, up and down, agonizingly slowly.

  I let my knees fall open just enough and he continues, each stroke working the melting ice cube closer to my inner thigh.

  My body is on fire as the ice sears my skin. I keep my eyes closed and lose myself to this sensation. Tyler is exploring and I’m dying a little with every stroke, dying for him to touch me, and dying because he can’t. Or won’t. Or some stupid excuse that makes no fucking sense right now.

  My body throbs and I feel the moisture pool between my legs, every nerve aroused and attuned to him. I’m lost in this moment without sex or alcohol or any sensation except a single ice cube and Tyler’s presence.

  His hands might not be on my body, but I know his eyes are, and that’s enough to short-circuit every sane thought in my head about remaining cheerfully platonic. I can’t. I’m dying to touch him but every time I do, he rejects me, and I don’t think I can take it again.

  Tyler shifts his body, the heat of his chest radiating through my arm. Air feathers across my nipples and they’re peaked, my breasts almost flattened against my chest as I lie on my back. It’s not a good look and I’m sure that’s why Tyler isn’t touching them.

  “Stella.” Tyler’s voice is a growl and my eyes open. He slips the last of the ice cube between his lips and I’m afraid that this is the end of one of the most erotic experiences of my life.

  Instead, his hands return to the ice cube’s path, their familiar rhythm stroking my thigh from my knee to where my pajama shorts end. There’s no pretense of an ice cube. His gaze is hot and raw but I can tell he’s struggling. He’s asking for permission.

  “Yes.” I let him hold my gaze as his hand travels higher, skimming the edge of my shorts. Beneath them, I’m naked, and I shiver when his fingers brush the curve of my leg at my bikini line. I draw my knees farther apart. I want him.

  Tyler exhales slowly, as if relief is washing over him, and his long fingers explore me beneath the edge of my shorts. He touches with reverence and curiosity, with gentleness and need, and I moan as his fingers reach my center and play in the moisture there.

  My hips buck, pleading with Tyler to come closer. I feel sweat sliding from my chest but Tyler’s eyes are fastened on mine, his expression intense.

  And tender. I buck again and his eyes sweep my body, as if he’s just discovering the rest of me. When his gaze returns to my face, he settles on my mouth. His lips part and he offers a hesitant kiss, soft and sweet.

  I take it with relish. I kiss him back with passion that shouts what my heart feels even though I won’t let my words tell him. I grip the hair at the back of his head and my kiss tells him everything I need.

  I’m breathless when his fingers finally enter me, first one and then two, and plunge and twist to reach the deepest places within me.

  Pleasure builds in my body and I break our kiss with a moan, feeling the first tingles of a building orgasm. Tyler’s fingers move like ocean waves, gentle and persistent, and he ducks his head, his mouth capturing my nipple and rolling it between his teeth and tongue.

  I am electricity. Pure energy. I spark and flash with his touch inside me, groaning with the pressure and pull of his mouth on my breast. I rock hard against his hand, his thumb pressed to the apex, sending little lightning bolts up my chest and down my legs.

  I shake with desire and Tyler releases my breast, moving back to my mouth with a molten gaze that is terrifying and wild. It tells me I am his, and he plunges inside my mouth again to bring us closer, my tongue to his, his breath in my lungs, o
ur sweat mingling as we grasp and pull each other closer.

  And then I am over the edge, spiraling as a current of energy hits me so hard that I cry out and arch my back and twist in his hand. I’m riding this wave of energy and I feel it racing to the shore, ready to tumble me beneath it.

  Tyler catches me when I crash, his hands gentling, his strokes softer and more fluid. He feels my vulnerability and releases his fingers from their anchor between my legs, skimming them up the curves of my hip and breast to my shoulder.

  He pulls me close and rains tiny kisses on my cheeks, forehead and eyelids. He offers closeness and comfort in my afterglow. Finally, I feel him—I let my hands touch him back and I wrap my body into his, naked chest to naked chest, only a thin sheen of sweat between us.

  My head nestles on his chest above his strong heartbeat and our breathing grows steady and even. He strokes my arm and my waist, gestures more caring than needy.

  I can’t speak to him. I can’t ask what this means for us—I’m too afraid of the answer. So I let him keep touching me as I explore his body.

  I place my hand on his flat stomach and I feel a slight reaction. I move higher and his chest vibrates with a deep groan. I let my fingernails blaze a trail across his pecs and Tyler squeezes me closer to him.

  My hand travels across his body and then down, skimming the waistband of his boxer shorts.

  Again, I drag my hand up his stomach and revel in his reaction. I reach the place I’ve been curious about for so long—his pierced nipple—and my finger traces a lazy path an inch from the silver bar with balls on either side.

  This is me asking for permission.

  Tyler stills, but I take it as consent, and I let my finger touch the hard nub of his nipple. He draws a sharp breath and pulls my mouth to his, plunging us into a deep kiss as my fingers continue exploring.

  When we break, I have to ask the question that’s intrigued me ever since I first saw the piercing. “This. It’s not just for show, right?”

  Tyler’s lip twitches. “Right. It’s pretty much a direct connection to my, uh, groin.”

  I raise my eyebrows, emboldened by this admission, letting my hand trail down his stomach again but this time not stopping at the waistband on his boxers. Through the thin material I feel him hard and thick, and his breath hitches as I stroke him.

  “Seems to work,” I say, bringing playfulness into our connection. I work my fingers through the hole in the front of his underwear and feel his skin and hair. Soft and hard, smooth and rough, his body is a delicious contradiction.

  Tyler stills my hand with his. “Stella, wait.”

  Oh, shit. Not this again.

  “I’m—I need to take this slow.”

  His hand is on my hand, and my hand is on his dick, so I’d say we’re not exactly going slow. But he hasn’t pushed me away, either. “How slow is slow?”

  Tyler lowers his chin to look at me, his dark eyes open and trusting. Pleading, even. “Let me hold you. Tonight, please, let’s just have this moment.” His hand releases mine and runs up my arm. A caress.

  He’s not pushing me away and I’m confused. I release him and move my hand back up to his stomach and he seems to sigh, as if relieved I’m not touching him there. OK. This is weird. I’ve never met a guy who didn’t want to be touched there.

  We stroke each other but it’s not a hormonal frenzy, just closeness. It’s—intimate. Even more intimate than some sex I’ve had.

  Lie. It’s more intimate than most sex I’ve had. That thought is sad and telling. It’s why I wanted so desperately for someone to hold me last night as I wallowed in self-pity and loneliness.

  I wish I could have asked for that, just flat-out told Tyler what I needed then, and let him hold me the way he gives me everything else so freely.

  And this thought strikes me: I can. I can ask him for what I need the same way he just asked me.

  “Tyler? Can I make you a deal?”

  “Sure, Stella. Anything.”

  “You haven’t heard my deal yet.”

  “You’ve already convinced me.”

  I swallow with that new information. Maybe he does like me. But I can’t wrap my head around the promise and possibility of what that means. “Let’s say sometime I just want you to hold me. Can you do that?”

  “Always.”

  “Promise?”

  “Just say the word.”

  “Even when I suck? Because sometimes I really do.”

  “Especially then. Because I’ll squeeze the suckiness right out of you.”

  I laugh and Tyler rolls toward me, smiling.

  “So, I’m OK with going slow. If that’s what you want,” I say. He nods. Crap. He’s not giving me anything to work with here. “So, um, I’m curious. Why do you want to go slow?”

  Tyler shakes his head and he won’t look at me.

  “Hey, I’m still holding you. I’m not going anywhere. Talk to me, Tyler.”

  “I can’t. I mean, I don’t want you to see the ugly side of what’s happening.”

  I snort with laughter. “Seriously? The ugly side? Tyler, you’ve seen me at my absolute worst and you’re still here. Don’t you think I’d do the same for you?”

  His mouth falls open. “Yeah, Stella, I believe you will.” I wait as he works his jaw with concentration, trying to find the right words to spit out what’s bothering him.

  “There’s something happening and I don’t know what’s real or a lie yet. It could be a setup but I’m afraid there might be truth to it and I’m worried.”

  I don’t follow his train of thought, but he looks scared so I stay quiet.

  “I’m supposed to just shut up about it and let the lawyers work. And I can’t tell you any more. Gavin and Dave don’t know yet—only Jayce. So I really can’t tell you, at least not until they know. Can you handle that?”

  “Yes.” I plant a gentle kiss on his shoulder and squeeze him tightly even though our bodies are still slick with sweat. “So that’s why you wanted us to go slow?”

  “I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.” He traces a line from the hollow of my throat down between my breasts. “But you wreck me, Stella. When I’m close to you, I can’t not touch you.”

  This admission floors me, and instantly I recognize that he’s right. So many small gestures since I met him add up—holding my hand to lead me through the restaurant, sitting thigh to thigh in the cab, the piggyback rides, massaging my feet.

  Each of these touches was a spark, a hum of current that tapped into my body’s energy until I couldn’t not touch Tyler either. He’s created a magnetic pull over me.

  But something else is pulling him away.

  EIGHTEEN

  I escape the apartment early to avoid weirdness between me and Tyler. I hate the walk of shame and morning-after small talk, so I rarely stay with a guy until morning.

  Hell, I rarely talk to them again.

  But it’s impossible to avoid that special brand of awkward when the guy who gives you a toe-curling orgasm also happens to be your roommate. Like a coward, I put it off.

  At work, I call the photographer Heath forwarded to me and her name seems familiar. We chat a few minutes as I explain my story. Then I realize that Violet is Neil’s roommate and he forwarded her name to Heath.

  “What musicians have you photographed? Any story I’d recognize?”

  “I haven’t really shot musicians,” Violet says. OK. Weird. “I usually do fine art photography. Not photojournalism.”

  Yikes. This could be a one-way trip to disaster. But since Heath told me to use her, I’m not going to question his judgment. “What made you switch?”

  “Oh, a bunch of reasons,” she answers vaguely. “Anyway, when do you want to do this shoot? You said there’s lots of natural light?”

  We plan to meet at The Indie Voice in the afternoon and go to Tyler’s loft together. Considering she didn’t recognize Gavin when he helped pick up my stuff, I’m pretty sure she won’t go fangirl on the band and expose
the location of Tyler’s loft, but I make her promise anyway.

  As we climb the steps to Tyler’s loft, I can hear the band above us rocking an intense, fast-paced song with a catchy melody. I haven’t heard it before.

  Violet follows, towering over me but rail-thin. An enormous bag of camera equipment bounces on her hip and she has a tripod slung over one shoulder. We’re both soaked with sweat by the time we hit the top stair landing.

  I unlock the front door, immediately disappointed by the heat. The air conditioning is still toast and I apologize to Violet, who shrugs. The band ignores us, even though I catch Dave’s eye and he nods. The other girls aren’t here yet and I relax slightly, leading Violet to the couches to wait until the band takes a break.

  She puts her bag on the couch and assembles a camera out of pieces and parts—lens, body, fill flash, and some other doohickeys I don’t recognize. I have no idea how to help her so I pull out my reporter’s notepad and scribble notes for my story, trying to look busy.

  Dave calls for a break and the guys disperse to the bathroom and kitchen. Tyler comes straight to me and I introduce him to Violet with careful formality.

  I glance at Violet and shake my head slightly at Tyler, begging him to play it cool. Heath and Neil don’t know I live here, so Violet shouldn’t either. I wish I’d called Tyler to get our stories straight.

  Tyler angles his body so I’m between him and Violet. “You OK?” His voice is a whisper and he curls his finger to brush the crook of my arm inside my elbow. It’s an intimate, questioning gesture.

  I nod and my face heats with the memory of last night. “We’re good.”

  Tyler grins when I use the plural. We are good.

  Tyler entertains Violet with a grandiose tour of his loft and then Dave takes over, going back-and-forth with Violet on how the instruments should be moved and the band members positioned to take maximum advantage of the light.

  The fact that Tattoo Thief is soaked in sweat and Jayce has his shirt off doesn’t hurt. Gavin sheds his T-shirt as well, his freckled shoulders shiny with sweat. Tyler ribs him for showing off but Dave nods approval.