Drawn Together bs-6

by Lauren Dane

  It made her smile to imagine him eating from a little foam cup. “Was that your college mainstay?”

  “I had a roommate whose dad owned a restaurant. The guy was pretty amazing in the kitchen. I have to admit I ate pretty well in college. Law school involved a lot of takeout and peanut butter sandwiches though.” He watched her with greedy eyes. “Can you cook?”

  She shrugged. “I do all right. I have my few go-to meals. Spaghetti, tacos, soup. Nothing overly complicated. Erin, now she can cook.”

  “But she can’t do tattoos.”

  He was a flatterer, Jonah Warner. And he knew just exactly what to say to get to her. It wasn’t calculated in any way. Which only made it more powerful.

  “She can’t. But the rock star, two husbands, great kid, lots of money part gets her through.”

  He laughed. “How long have you known her?”

  “Erin? Fourteen, nearly fifteen years now.”

  “Where did you grow up? I keep getting a little bit of Southern from you.”

  She tried to remain relaxed. It wasn’t as if she never spoke about her personal life. Within limits. “Arkansas.”

  “Really? Where?”

  She’d told people about Happy Bend, but this man . . . well, he got under her skin. Telling him this thing gave him power of a sort. She wasn’t altogether sure if she wanted that.

  “Small town in the middle of nowhere. Anyway, now that I’ve seen your back I think either of the first two designs would work really well. The others all would with some editing. But the tattoo on your shoulder would impact how I’d wrap a few of them.”

  “You’re mysterious.”

  She snorted. “Not so much.”

  “If not, then tell me the name of the town.”

  She raised a brow. “You really don’t like to be thwarted, do you? The thing is, even though you’re ridiculously handsome and you kiss like you’d be really good in bed, I’m not going to be goaded like I’m in grade school.” Not that she’d ever been much of a normal grade-schooler anyway.

  “And to think you said I was a handful.”

  “Well, we all have our crosses to bear.”

  “So tell me something. Anything.”

  He was so ridiculously charming she couldn’t resist.

  “My favorite color is purple.”

  “Mine is green.”

  “I bet it looks awesome on you.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Your eyes and hair, the sort of tawny skin tone . . . it would work with a deep green.”

  “What color are your panties?”

  She grinned as she took a sip of her beer. “Who says I’m wearing any?”

  He choked.

  “Black. Wearing underpants with trousers or jeans is sort of mandatory in my personal rule book.”

  “There you go, cutting into my fantasy.”

  “Are we pretending I won’t make your fantasy reality?”

  He got serious as he looked her over so closely she had to fight back a blush.

  Her shrug aimed at nonchalance but most likely failed. “I don’t play games when it comes to sex.”

  Usually she said it calmly, but just then he made her feel defensive. Well, no, defensive wasn’t the right word. Like she needed to declare it with her chin jutted out. Or something.

  “You don’t? Well, there goes that fantasy.”

  She laughed, relaxing.

  “Well, there are games and there are games. I like what I like. I’m an adult. I think it’s a waste of time to pretend we aren’t sexually attracted to each other when we are.”

  His gaze went hooded.

  “All right. I can get on board with that. I want you.”

  Heat and cold washed over her. Which was silly. She wasn’t a virgin by any stretch of the imagination. But this sort of desire left her breathless. Giddy. She wasn’t used to this. A slow heat sure. She’d felt that with Brody Brown for a very long time. He was an attractive man who cared about her, and that had been comforting as well as exciting. But this man . . . well. He wasn’t the long, slow dance that men like Brody Brown were. This man was intense. He stole her breath.

  Being so out of sorts and off balance wasn’t something she did well.

  Then again, she had no intention of leaving, so to pretend otherwise was ridiculous.

  “And I want the Celtic design one. Circles. I like that.”

  She would have chosen that one in his place as well. He was a warrior type. Big and braw. Smart. Good lord, she could see the intelligence and cunning in his gaze. Like a wolf, she supposed.

  “Nice choice.”

  “I feel vindicated that you agree.”

  “It’ll look good on you.”

  “Why do I get the feeling you’d never allow otherwise?”

  “I like my work. I like my reputation. If I cut corners or got sloppy, I’d have neither.”

  “That . . . and I think you’re a control freak. Have you ever given any thought to releasing that control?”

  His voice had gone low and silky and it sent a shiver through her.

  “Are you going to try to convert me now?”

  He laughed, but there was more than simple amusement there. This was foreplay.

  “I suppose I’d like to show you my idea of heaven.”

  Good lord.

  “Do I have to read your pamphlet now? I like candy on Halloween. I like to dance. I particularly enjoy premarital sex.”

  He stood, stacking her empty plate on his before carrying them to the sink. “In my religion, you can have all the candy, dancing and sex with me that you can stand.”

  “Hm. Well, perhaps conversion is something worth considering.”

  “First things first. Tattoos.”

  He got such a smug expression she was torn between amusement and annoyance. Men. “It’s probably going to take at least two sessions, maybe three. Your design has a lot of shading. Just the outlining alone will take several hours. I can do it here if you like. Or you can come to my place or the shop.”

  “The shop is near Green Lake, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Near the zoo. The regular hours are eleven to ten. But I can work around that if you need.”

  “Oh, I do need. But not that. Where is your place?”

  “Capitol Hill.” Really only about ten minutes from his place.

  “And you could do it here you said?”

  “You’ll need a comfortable chair or a table to lie on. It needs to be the right height so I can work and not be stooped over. I’ll have all the sterilized equipment with me, no matter where I do it.”

  “I don’t have a tattoo table. But, and you’re going to think I’m such a rich asshole, I do have a massage table. In my defense, I had to get surgery on my knee several years ago and the physical therapy involved massages. Because my schedule is crazy, they came out here. It’s in a closet, but would that work?”

  She laughed. “You are a rich asshole. But it should, depending on how high it is. I can work back and forth between a chair and the table. It should keep you more comfortable too.”

  He glowered and then stomped over, pulling her into his arms to kiss her hard and fast.

  “I have to warn you that if insulting you gets me kissed, this is a negative-association thing. I’ll have to keep it up to get more.”

  His dark look faded, replaced by a smile. “I’m not an asshole.”

  “Hmm. I have a theory about this. Would you like to hear it?”

  “Come with me.” He tugged and she followed. “You can tell me on the way.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Anywhere you’ll let me. Tell me your theory.”

  “My theory is about rich people in general. So you’re multi-generational rich. Old money, established family.”

  “You seem to know a lot about me.”

  “Yes, when I set my plan to get pregnant and trap you into marriage so I could live it up, I had a dossier created about you. It was either that or,
say, live in Seattle where you’re in the paper. Oh, or be friends with people who know your brother and his girlfriend.”

  He paused, looking her up and down. “Ouch.”

  “Indeed. Anyway, back to my theory. Second– or third-gen wealth produces trust-fund assholes who think work is red carpet for so-called charity events in between long bouts of shopping and partying. Rehab is involved sometimes. Marrying older men from other rich families who are supposed to calm Ms. Trust Fund and have her start breeding for the cause. But then there are those families who believe in noblesse oblige. Those successive generations make their kids have jobs. Raise them with a sense of responsibility and gratitude for their situation. Those kids, like you and Levi, work their asses off. But there’s no getting around the simple fact that having money changes your life. You’re accustomed to things like shorter lines at the airport, better service, nicer hotel rooms, your clothes are made better, you eat better. All that stuff. So you’re not an asshole like some who’d yell at the cleaning lady or the valet. You were raised better than that. But you have a sense of entitlement. Not like the trust-fund kids, but it’s there. You were raised with it. You can’t get around it. You don’t like being told no. You don’t like being refused things. You wouldn’t have this house and your expensive wristwatch if you weren’t an asshole in some sense. You work for it and you have to overcome what some in your community do to be taken seriously.”

  “You’re pretty smart.”

  She frowned. “For a gal who grew up in Happy Bend, Arkansas?”

  “Now see, there you are.”

  “Here I am?”

  He continued to draw her upstairs. “Yes. Happy Bend. Sounds like a lovely small town. Also, working hard and coming from money doesn’t make me an asshole.”

  “It’s not Mayberry. It’s a shithole filled with assholes, alcoholics and losers.” She clamped her lips shut against the words. “Anyway, I explained to you the difference between the asshole who throws cell phones at the help and the asshole who works hard but has a sense of entitlement to the best things in life. For instance, do you know how often I get asked by people if I do house calls?”

  “No, but I get the feeling you’re going to smack me with the point and I’m going to have to admit you’re right.”

  “You should always assume that. But in this case, people ask for me to come to their homes very rarely. Sometimes if someone is recovering from a health issue that makes it hard for them to get out. But mainly, it’s mover-and-shaker types. Who are simply used to being catered to. Now, like I said, there’s a difference between types of assholes. If there wasn’t, I wouldn’t be allowing you to get me into your bedroom.”

  “How do you know that’s where I’m taking you?”

  “Because you want to fuck me.”

  “And I get what I want, Raven.”

  “In this case you will, yes.”

  He pushed open double doors and she had a very difficult time not being impressed, so she let it happen. Art dominated the walls downstairs as well, but up here, it was a different sort of art. Sensual.

  The impressive thing, other than the art and the giant four-postered bed, was the view. The view out three walls of windows with wraparound decking just beyond. The view that took in the lake.

  “Gorgeous.”

  He looked her up and down. “I’m thinking the exact same thing.”

  “I’m no view of the lake. This is stunning.” Imagine waking up to this every day. She might never get out of bed if this was what she saw each day. She’d just sit and sketch her time away.

  “This is what sold me on the house.”

  She ran fingertips up the smooth, carved curves of the poster she stood nearest to. And hoped fervently he never fucked his ex on this bed. Not normally anything she’d have cared about. But . . . she didn’t want to be associated with memories of another woman.

  “I found this bed four years ago. In San Diego of all places, so it had to be shipped.”

  Well, that answered her question. No ex in this bed. Not a wife anyway.

  “It’s a king’s bed.”

  One corner of his mouth lifted. “Is that so?”

  She nodded.

  The way he looked at her gave her butterflies. Is this what Erin meant when she talked about how Todd made her feel at times? Interesting.

  “I’d like to fuck you. Well, I’d like to do lots of things with you, including fucking. You down with that?”

  She nodded. “I’m so down with that.”

  “The glass is treated. No one can see in. So you should get naked for me.”

  She slowly unbuttoned her blouse to reveal the lacy camisole she was very glad she’d worn.

  He hummed low, watching, his gaze on her a weight.

  She stepped from her shoes, placing them beneath a nearby chair. The sticks came from her hair easily enough, sending it down her back and loose around her shoulders. The camisole slid from her skin, leaving her in a bra. A black-and-purple bra.

  Next, the zipper at the side of her trousers slid down, enabling her to step from them.

  “Your panties match your bra. I like that.”

  She didn’t know why, but the fact that he liked it made her . . . proud.

  The bra and underpants took only moments and she stood before him, far more than her skin bared.

  He stared, long and hard, not trusting his words. She was so beautiful.

  Long dark hair with threads of deep blue shot through it. Large, high breasts, silver bars through each nipple. Her skin was pale, creamy, and covered with ink here and there. Her legs were long, her toenails a deep red. She was bold, the way she looked back at him. And yet there was a fragility to Raven that grabbed him and didn’t let go. He was torn between a clawing desire and a need to cosset and spoil.

  The stars she’d indicated earlier started at her left hip and scattered up her belly, across to her other hip and up her rib cage. Up each of her inner arms she had thorns and roses that wrapped around her biceps and shoulders.

  “I see three tattoos. Where are the others?”

  She turned, pulling her hair aside. Across her back spilled ivy and purple flowers.

  “What are the flowers?”

  “Forget-me-nots.”

  Her voice, threaded with tension, tugged at him, drawing him closer.

  “Eula?” He traced over the word that had been woven into a knot of ivy.

  “My great-grandmother.”

  Each time she told him something personal it felt like a victory. “Ah. This work is stunning.”

  On her back at each hip sat a triangle with swirls.

  “What are the triangles?”

  “Triquetra on each side. Same basic concept, but the right is based on the disc I used to put in my 45 singles back when I had a record player. The other, well, it’s got personal meaning.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “The nature of three. Mind, body, spirit. Maiden, mother, crone. The three levels of earth. That design is Celtic. Like I said earlier, Brody did all my work. He’s an artist, isn’t he?”

  Jonah didn’t want any other man’s name on her lips. Even though he knew Brody Brown was a man who appeared to adore his wife and two daughters. Jonah knew too that Brody and Raven had once been involved.

  “You’re quite the canvas.”

  He noted the soft upturn of her lips. A pleased, touched smile. He wanted to see it again.

  “Can I undress you?”

  The two of them paused. Each seemingly surprised by the request.

  “Yes.”

  She pulled his shirt off again, leaning in to press an openmouthed kiss against his chest.

  “Your body is beautiful.” She murmured it, nearly to herself.

  He didn’t stop himself from sliding his palms over her shoulders and down her back, drawing her closer as she pulled his pants open and then down, kneeling as she did.

  He stepped from his pants and shorts and then she looked up his body, shocking
him into utter stillness as he took in the sight of this woman on her knees before him.

  It was more than kneeling to get at his cock. It was . . . more. So much more.

  “I like the way you look there. On your knees before me.”

  “Do you?”

  He nodded, sliding his fingers through her hair.

  “I do. Very much. So much that I think you should suck my cock. Yes, yes, I think that’s definitely what you should do.”

  She leaned in, brushing her cheek against the line of his cock until he nearly hissed. How such a small thing could feel so amazing he didn’t know, but it did.

  She licked up the line from his sac to the crown, around and around, before sucking him into the heat of her mouth. Hot and wet, she took him deep, so deep he grunted at how amazing it felt.

  Over and over, the rhythm of her down and up, down and up, the heat cooling as she retreated, only to shock him again as she swallowed his cock. Her nails scored up the backs of his thighs, her hands flattening on his ass to pull him closer.

  From his vantage point he could take in the color on her back as her hair moved. It was so good he had an inner quarrel with himself. He told himself he could stop her in just a bit because he wanted more of her mouth. Then he told himself he had great recovery time and if he came in her mouth—and that idea appealed quite a lot—that he could concentrate on making her come and then by the time he was ready again, he could fuck her.

  So he could have both.

  Yes, that was it.

  What he really wanted was to grab that gorgeous hair, wrap it around his fists for purchase so he could fuck her face. Not dignified. But he wanted it with so much greed it clawed at him.

  She pulled back and looked up at him. The sight of those eyes and the expression on her face shocked him to his toes.

  “Is there a problem?” One brow rose.

  He laughed, giving in enough to caress her face and head. “Only the wealth of options you present.”

  “Liar.”

  “I don’t know you well enough yet.”

  “Hm. You know me well enough to put your cock in my mouth.”

  Put that way . . .

  He licked his lips.

  “I said I didn’t play games when it came to sex and I meant it. I think you should do the same.”

  He didn’t want to scare her off. God knew he wanted at this woman for a while to come. But she was right.