Merry Inkmas: A BWWM Romance

by Talia Hibbert

  “Stay after closing tonight, okay? We’ll have a little consultation.”

  “But—but I don’t know what I want!”

  “That’s what the consultation’s for.”

  “I can’t afford you!”

  He frowned. “Bailey. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “But—”

  “After closing.” And then he left.

  Bailey huffed out her frustration, muttering her outrage to the empty room. The audacity of that man. He was so bloody high-handed it beggared belief.

  So why was she fighting a smile?

  Chapter Thirteen

  So maybe she’d been a bit hasty.

  Bailey could admit that. Not aloud, obviously, because Cash was sitting right next to her, smirking at the sight of her in the big old chair-bed thingy he tattooed people on. Probably still laughing at the fact that the straight-edge geeky girl in glasses thought she was cool enough for this.

  Oh, whatever. She was just collecting trouble. Aside from his initial reaction, Cash had been entirely supportive.

  It was almost like last night had never happened.

  Almost.

  “So what were you thinking?” He asked, his voice low, intimate. But that was just an illusion, because he’d made it quite clear that he didn’t want to be intimate with her. Didn’t want to ruin her, whatever that meant.

  Well. She’d always thought that men should come with a warning label. It was rather accommodating of him to attach one of his own accord.

  “Um…” She thought about the flash on the walls of the entrance room, of Gem’s unique collection of tattoos, a scrapbook written across her skin. Of Jay’s watercolour brights and Steve’s traditional style. But before she could organise her thoughts, Cash turned and rifled in the shelves behind him, producing a slim sketchbook slightly smaller than his usual one.

  He opened it at the first page and turned it around to face her. “What about something like these?”

  She barely had the time to process the stylised, geometric drawing of—was that a badger?—before he flicked to the next one, where countless small illustrations were littered in a neo-traditional style. Dark quotes within sweet floral borders; a teacup that looked suspiciously like Chip, from Beauty and the Beast, in which swirled a tempestuous storm.

  “When did you do all this?” She asked. But then he turned the page again, and she gasped.

  Somehow, with the harshest and darkest of shading, in a style that was all his own, he’d created the impression of luminous glass. It was a dome containing a single red rose, but the case was shattered. No; shattering, from the base up, cracks snaking along its smooth contours. Only the head of the lush bloom remained safe, and not for long. Some indefinable magic swirled around the image, a trick of light and shadow that only a true artist could begin to understand, never mind wield.

  She looked up at him, unable to hide her awe. “You did this?”

  He nodded.

  “For me?” But she already knew the answer. Of course it was for her. “How did you…” She trailed off, unsure of exactly what she was asking. How had he known—?

  That I’ve been fascinated by the rose my whole life, by the ticking time bomb that lay between Beauty and her Beast. That I was still such a child on the inside, still so caught up in my past. That I’m ready to accept that, and own it, and etch it into my skin.

  How did you know before I did?

  But all she said was, “This one. I want this one.”

  “You sure? You don’t want something smaller, for now?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Alright,” he said, his voice gruff as he snapped the sketchbook shut. But he was pleased with her reaction; she could tell. He let his long hair fall into his eyes, and his lips curled slightly in something that was too soft to be a smirk.

  “I know where I want it, too,” she said.

  “Ah, yeah; I was gonna ask. It’s a big piece, or I’d like it to be.”

  “You’d like it to be?” She arched a brow.

  “Yeah. I know exactly how I want every tattoo I create. Whether the canvas feels like cooperating is a different matter.”

  She laughed as she leaned back in the huge chair. That was the funny thing about being with Cash—no matter how on edge she felt at first, somehow she always ended up relaxed. Comfortable. Happy. Lord knew why. He was a grumpy fuck.

  A grumpy fuck who’d spent half the day wearing Gem’s flashing Santa hat. But a grumpy fuck, nonetheless.

  “It would be interesting, getting into your head,” she murmured. It was just a passing thought; one she had often, but not anything she thought would ever happen.

  Yet he reacted like she’d tied him up and started an interrogation. Instantly, the light left his green eyes, as though clouds had passed over the quiet sunshine of his happiness. He stiffened, folded his arms, and the menacing combination of thick muscle and dark ink sent a thrill through her that wasn’t entirely to do with the fight or flight response.

  “Nothing interesting in my head,” he said tonelessly. “It’s a wasteland.”

  “You’re an artist. That’s impossible.”

  “Guess we’ll never find out, then.” His face might as well have been hewn from stone.

  Bailey studied him for a moment, her curiosity well and truly piqued. But something about the set of his jaw, the brittle line of his broad shoulders, told her to change the subject.

  “I was thinking my thigh,” she blurted out. Steamroller the conversation, and he’ll forget it ever happened. Good one, Bailey.

  But it worked. He looked down at her bent leg as though she’d just kicked him in the face with it, blinking slowly.

  “Right,” he said. “Your thigh.”

  “Plenty of space, right?”

  He muttered something under his breath. It sounded like Hell, yeah.

  But he wouldn’t make fun of her like that, would he? She knew she wasn’t exactly the ideal woman, but Cash had never seemed the shallow type.

  Then again… She remembered the woman from a couple of weeks back, the one who’d clearly had something more with him, once upon a time. She was a skinny thing. Model-like.

  Bailey jumped as Cash’s hand landed on her knee.

  “Whatever you’re thinking,” he said firmly, “stop it.”

  “I—What?”

  “I don’t like the look on your face right now.”

  She bit her lip. And then she looked down at his hand on her; it was his left hand, un-inked, the skin pale against her dark blue jeans. She looked back up at him and their eyes clashed. Her body tingled as that familiar, indefinable heat grew between them, sparked by the raw, open look in his eyes.

  “Bailey,” he choked out. That was all. Just her name, his voice strangling the two syllables as though they were the hardest thing he’d ever had to say.

  She tore her gaze from his, her pulse racing. Without her permission, her hands moved, and before she knew it her fingers were tracing the swirling lines of his octopus tattoo. His skin was hot, almost burning, and so soft despite the hard muscle beneath.

  “Bailey,” he said again. “Sometimes… Sometimes you look at me like…”

  “Like what?” She asked when his voice trailed off.

  “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I don’t know how to describe it. But it makes me wish I was a better person.”

  She frowned up at him. “Why would you say that? You’re already the best man I know.” And as soon as the words left her mouth, she realised they were true. He was the best man she had ever known.

  And so, when he leaned in close, a question in his eyes, she didn’t push him away. Instead, she reached up and took her glasses off, folding them carefully before putting them on the little table beside her. And then she turned back to Cash and curled her fingers around the cotton of his T-shirt, pulling him closer. Without her glasses, and with their faces so close, he appeared in gentle detail; beyond beautiful and beyond real. And he was here, with her
. That was close enough to being hers. Wasn’t it?

  But wait—she didn’t want that, anyway. She didn’t want that at all. So she reached for what she did want: arching up, Bailey brought her lips to his.

  He may have been the one leaning over her, a hand gripping her thigh, the other cradling her head—but she was the one in control this time. She surrendered to the insistent thrum of desire that his presence roused, basked in his heat and the familiar smell of ink and paper and coffee that clung to him. Her tongue slid between his lips and she tasted him like he was a fine wine, locked away for decades, for centuries, in anticipation of this very moment. Because, Lord, it felt like she’d been waiting her entire life to kiss a man like Cash Evans.

  No. Not a man like him.

  Just him.

  He groaned against her lips, and then she felt the huge chair shift as he climbed on, over her, his legs bracketing hers and his broad body covering her own. She arched into him and was rewarded when her core brushed against the stiff column of his erection, sending a delicious thrill through her veins. Desperate, thoughtless, wanting—her reality sharpened to a fine point in which nothing but need mattered. She rose up again, writhing beneath his wickedly decadent weight, grinding her aching pussy against his swollen cock.

  “Oh, fuck,” he moaned low into her mouth, and then his big hands skimmed their way up her torso, pushing her jumper out of the way. He pulled back to gaze down at her exposed chest—because she rarely bothered with bras. What was the point, when she had so little to fill them? Except now, she wished she had—a Wonderbra, perhaps, with a mountain of padding, so her breasts didn’t look quite so small cupped in his big hands.

  But then, he didn’t seem to mind. He was gazing down at her with hunger in his eyes. Then he lowered his head to suck one stiff nipple, his tongue worshipping the tip even as his lips tugged, and suddenly she didn’t give a fuck about the size of her tits. How could she, when he made them feel so fucking good?

  She wrapped her legs around his narrow hips almost instinctively, her mind more animal than rational as lust took over. He reached down with one hand to grab her thigh, kneading the thick flesh as though he couldn’t get enough, and she moaned his name like a prayer.

  He released her nipple with a little pop that almost made her giggle, his thick stubble tickling her sensitive skin. But then she saw the deadly serious look on his face.

  “What is it?” She whispered.

  He studied her with something close to wonder in his eyes.

  “I just… I never thought it could be like this,” he said. “You’re so…”

  She didn’t wait to hear the end of his sentence. She didn’t need to hear it. She didn’t want to hear it.

  Because she’d heard it all before.

  Her desire drained like blood from a wound. Her body stiffened beneath him, but he didn’t seem to notice. Probably too busy dreaming up pretty speeches designed to talk her out of her knickers.

  “You don’t need to do that,” she muttered.

  He frowned. “Do what?”

  “Talk all that fairytale bullshit to me.” She pushed against his chest, not hard, but he pulled back as though he’d been burned, standing up before she could blink. Rearranging her clothes, Bailey stood too.

  “Wait,” he said, reaching for her—but she stepped smartly out of his way, and he let his hand fall. “What… What did I do?”

  She squinted in the general direction of the side table, fumbling for her glasses and trying not to knock any ink bottles over. Then she felt his hand close over hers as he passed them to her. Her jaw tight, she took the glasses and put them on. They were smudged, but she wasn’t about to stand there and clean them.

  “I’m not an idiot, Cash. I don’t know how you usually operate, but you don’t need to give me the Prince Charming speech if you want to fuck. Just ask. I’ll give you a yes or no answer.”

  He raked his hand through his hair, and she was almost undone by his apparent frustration. Almost.

  “It… It wasn’t a speech,” he insisted. “I mean… What, you think I’m just making this shit up? You think the way I feel about you is fake?”

  She smiled sadly. The way he felt about her? God, he was good. “When it comes to relationships, everything’s fake. We all convince ourselves that lust has to mean happily ever after, or it doesn’t count. And when you base one thing on a lie, everything that follows is false.”

  He folded his arms, his face hardening. “That’s an interesting way of looking at things. But nothing about me is fake, Bailey.”

  “Careful,” she said softly. “Don’t make a liar of yourself.” But then she shook her head, smiling at her own foolishness. “What am I saying? You can’t help it. Everyone does. Eventually.”

  He stepped closer, and she was suddenly reminded of how very large he was. His broad body loomed over her, almost vibrating with anger, despite the careful rigidity with which he held himself.

  “You want me,” he said, his voice urgent, insistent.

  “Obviously.” She didn’t step back, didn’t cower. She had no need to. She wasn’t afraid of Cash.

  Just of the way he made her feel.

  “So why are you putting up some bullshit barrier?” He demanded.

  She set her jaw stubbornly. She was right. She knew she was. God—she’d watched enough films in her life to know a line when she heard one.

  He shook his head, a mocking smile curving his lips, becoming something sharp and savage. “Alright, then. I can give you what you want to hear.” He bent over her, crowding her, until she finally felt the urge to step back, just to escape the intensity of his gaze. “I don’t know how that romance shit works. None of it. You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  Though she’d suspected as much, the admission felt like a blow to Bailey’s chest. To the pure pleasure she’d felt just moments ago. But then he reached out, wrapped his long fingers around her forearms, and when he spoke again, his tone was almost desperate. “But you, Bailey—I want you. Badly. Except I can’t fucking have you. Because all I’ve ever offered a woman is ninety days. A fling. Three months, at most, and I’m gone. No emotional bullshit, and no going back. It’s all I’m good for and it’s all I know.” A sour smirk curved his lips. “You say you don’t want fairytales—but I doubt you want that.”

  She swallowed, working hard to keep her face impassive. To keep the barrier erect. And if she thought she saw a glimmer of disappointment, of hopelessness, behind his tiger’s eyes…

  She was mistaken. She must be mistaken.

  Bailey thought fast. His words were wreathed in challenge, and she knew what he thought. That she was a good girl. That she needed hearts and flowers or nothing at all. It never occurred to people that a woman might possess more than two dimensions. That she might be awkward, geeky, and horny all at once.

  So when she reached out and put her hand against his chest, she expected the flare of surprise in his eyes.

  And when she said, “Actually, you’re wrong. I’ll take that. Happily.”

  His speechlessness was to be expected, but it was still bloody satisfying.

  She turned to leave—but she didn’t expect him to pull her back. To capture her by the wrist and tug her to him and whisper, his voice raw, “Don’t fuck with me, Bailey.”

  “I’m not,” she said. “But I’d certainly like to fuck you.”

  She gave herself a second to enjoy the shock on his face before she turned and walked out.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lust was nothing new to Cash.

  How could it be? He was a man of intense appetites. Hence the strict time limits he placed on his relationships.

  When he woke up on Sunday morning with a hard cock and a head full of Bailey, he wasn’t surprised. He’d been dreaming of the damned woman for months now. It was almost embarrassing, at this point. And while he’d assumed that a taste of her would be enough to slake his thirst, that didn’t seem to be true. Because since the
moment he’d first kissed her, Cash’s need for Bailey had begun spiralling out of control.

  That worried him. That worried him a lot.

  And now—holy shit. Now she was, theoretically, within his reach. As long as she didn’t change her mind.

  Jesus Christ, he hoped she wouldn’t change her mind. It just might kill him.

  As the early morning sun filtered through his pale curtains, Cash threw off his thick, winter duvet and exposed his naked body to the cool air. He wrapped a fist around his erection and stroked, fast and hard, memories flashing through his head.

  Bailey, her head thrown back, her face a picture of agonised lust. Her body beneath his, the plump softness of her hips, the silky skin of her tits, those black-coffee nipples hardening between his lips…

  Then the memories slowed. Changed. Became something else. Fantasies, things he’d never seen before.

  Her naked body in his bed, relaxed and satisfied. Her hand in his as she smiled up at him, her brown eyes sparkling, her joy uncontrolled. Her fingers playing softly with his hair. He heard her voice whispering his name, and she sounded like she loved him.

  Cash opened his eyes and sat bolt upright.

  “What the fuck?” He murmured.

  And then his phone rang.

  It was her. It had to be. He reached over to the bedside table, answered the call with embarrassing eagerness.

  “Bailey?”

  “It’s John, idiot. Don’t you have caller ID?”

  Cash sighed, rubbed a hand over his face. Of course it wasn’t Bailey. She’d never called him. “For fuck’s sake. What time is it?”

  “Obviously not too early for Bailey to ring you.”

  “Bailey’s a lot prettier than you are.”

  “So you admit that you think she’s pretty?”

  Cash rolled his eyes and lay back against the bed, resigned to his doom. “I admit nothing. Did you call me for a reason?”

  “I did, actually.”

  “Yeah? What?”

  “I just wanted to let you know that you don’t need to drag me to your mother’s for Christmas anymore. Not that I don’t appreciate the offer, because I do.”