“I know.” The tattoo machine buzzes to life in Hakim’s hand, and he grins at me. “It’s what I do.”
Shaking my head, I turn toward the counter. And I brace myself.
Back in my private room, I’d forced myself not to turn around and look at Eden. But now, I don’t have a choice. And with her profile to me—and those dark, chocolate eyes not fixed on me—I don’t hold back.
I drop my gaze, starting at her booted feet, moving up and over the dark denim encasing her toned, slender thighs. She’s petite, no more than five-feet-four, but the curves on this woman. I lock down the growl rumbling in my chest and rolling up the back of my throat. She owns a round, firm ass, perfect for filling a man’s hands. The dip of her waist only emphasizes the feminine flare of her hips and the fullness of her breasts, which are a shade too large for her small stature and delicate build. In other words, goddamn flawless.
Dragging my starving scrutiny from her tits and up her elegant neck, I linger on the graceful line of her jaw. The sexual invitation that’s her mouth. The straight nose and slightly wide nostrils. The spatter of cinnamon-colored freckles across her cheek, nose, the slash of her cheekbone, and her forehead. They were an inheritance from her Polynesian grandmother, along with her golden, hot-sand-on-a-beach skin.
Long, thick, black-brown hair flows over her shoulders and down her back. The color reminds me of the bark on the trees in San Jose’s Japanese Friendship Garden. Deep. Rich. When I trained at a mixed martial arts school and gym out there years ago, I would go to that garden to think, to rest. That’s what Eden does to me. Her presence calms me even as she turns my body into a marble statue—hard as fuck.
Even now, I struggle to fight back the lust that’s always right under the surface, simmering, just waiting to be let loose like an inferno…or wild beast. Because that’s how I feel around her. Like a caged, hungry animal just waiting for one slip, anticipating that one time when the lock on its prison is left open so it can break free and feast.
She brushes her hair over her shoulder, revealing more of her profile. And like the animal I am, I watch her lips curve into her signature sweet smile as she slides the receipt across the counter for the coed to sign. All the while, I’m imagining those lush, sensual lips offering me that same innocent smile just before they part, giving way for my cock. Her mouth has always been my obsession. I want to take it, bruise it, corrupt it with mine, and with my dick. I want to come in it, watch her swallow every fucking drop of me, and then drag her back to her feet and taste us on her tongue.
Yeah, I’m a dirty motherfucker.
And the absolute lowest piece of shit walking to fantasize about my dead brother’s wife that way. Especially when partial blame for his death weighs on me like the world on Atlas’s shoulders. Connor had been the genius in our family—entering college at seventeen, graduating at twenty. We’d all expected him to be the first of us to get a job using his head instead of his hands or fists. Instead, he’d followed me into MMA. And eventually to his death.
The crushing, smothering guilt wouldn’t strangle me so tightly if all I wanted was to fuck Eden. To bury myself balls deep inside her. If that’s all I lusted after, then maybe the taint on my soul wouldn’t be as black.
But it’s not all I hunger for. I want it all. Her body, her affection… I want her to gaze at me the way she used to look at Connor. With that soft, secret gleam in her eyes that said they shared something that was completely mysterious to everyone else but them.
I want her. I have from the first moment I saw her five years ago—even after she met, fell in love with, and then married my brother.
And that makes my sin unforgivable.
I can never have Eden; I can never touch Connor’s wife. Because yeah, he’s gone, but she will always be his wife. And I am not worthy to breathe the same air, much less touch her. I know it. God knows it… My own mother knows it.
Women who know what’s up, who are willing to fuck or blow me in bathroom stalls or in the back room of a bar or club, those chicks are my speed. All I deserve. Quick, emotionless, nameless screws.
Never her.
I made a promise to keep my hands off Eden. And after all the other things I’ve broken in my life and others’—hopes, dreams, hearts—this is a vow I refuse to break.
“Hey.” She glances at me, arching a dark eyebrow. “We’re just about done here.”
“Thanks.” Nodding, I grab the top sheet from a stack under the counter and hand it to my client. “Here’s your aftercare directions. Like I told you, remove the bandage in about an hour. Keep the tattoo moist. We have some ointment”—I dip my head in the direction of the merchandise cabinet—“but you can use any petroleum-based ointment or lotion. All the instructions are right there.” I tap the sheet. “You have any questions, you can call up here, but everything should be included on the list.”
The instructions roll easily off my tongue; I’ve said them hundreds of times over the years. Still, this is the other woman’s first tat. But she’s not listening. Instead, she snatches Eden’s pen off the counter, rips a corner off the paper, and scribbles on it. I don’t need a Magic 8-Ball or an all-seeing-third-eye to figure out what she’s writing.
“Thanks, Knox. Hope to see you soon.” She grins and pushes the scrap toward me. Both Eden and I watch her stride out of the shop.
“Let me guess,” Eden says, turning to me with a smirk. “She offered to give you more than a tip for your fantastic work.”
Shaking my head, I pick up the paper with the name and number scrawled on it and toss it in the garbage can. I’m not answering that one.
She snorts, opening the register and placing the credit card slip under the cash drawer. “Hey, can I talk to you?” she asks, dragging a hand over her hair, pulling the strands out of her face.
I narrow my eyes at her. Something’s up. Her tells are pathetically easy to catch. How she doesn’t quite meet your eyes, or pulls her shoulders back and thrusts her chest out as if daring you to call her on something. Or crosses one foot in front of the other and stands in an awkward ballet position. What is it? Third or fourth? My stepsister used to take ballet lessons, and Dan and Mom used to force all of us to go to her recitals. It was hell.
Right now, though, Eden’s giving me all three of those telltale gestures. Whatever she needs to speak with me about must be some serious shit.
“Yeah,” I agree. “Hey, Jude, watch the front for a few?”
My brother glances at me, his tattoo machine still buzzing as he hovers above his client. His eyes, the same green as mine—as our father’s—shift from me to Eden and back to me. Of my three brothers, Jude and I have always been the closest. Probably because we’re only two years apart. So, when I barely jerk my chin up, he gets it.Ask me later.
“Got it covered,” he says.
