A flicker of wistfulness shimmers in my chest. I used to be one of those customers. Going out with friends, enjoying clubs and drinks after a hard day at work. My job had been stressful, but I’d balanced it with play, as well. Now that seems so far away, it’s barely a glimmer on the horizon of my real life. These days, winding down for me encompasses a long, hot shower with the luxury of shampooandconditioner—not two-in-one—and a chapter of my current book before passing out.
Oh yes. I’m a crazy party animal.
Sighing, I dropkick the pointless memories aside, focusing on my precarious present. And that includes entering the business where Jude works. Pulling the door open with the hand not holding a white plastic bag, I quickly slide inside and smother a pretty orgasmic moan as the warmth inside wraps around me like a cocoon.
Immediately, my ears are assaulted by some god-awful heavy metal that is all clashing cymbals, rapid-fire beats, screaming guitars, and unintelligible singing—and I’m beingrealgenerous with calling it singing. The customers perched on the black leather couches in the lobby area don’t seem to mind at all, though. Most of them are flipping through the tattoo portfolios scattered on the large glass table, or standing and perusing the hanging collections of stencils, drawings, and pictures of other tats.
I pass by them and approach the big, curving front desk and Eden, the shop manager and Connor’s-widow-now-Knox’s-woman. I don’t know if that makes us stepsisters-in-law or not, but I bet the complication is one of the reasons why Knox’s name transformed Dan and Katherine’s dining room into a deep freezer.
“Hey, Cypress,” the petite brunette with the cutest smattering of cinnamon-colored freckles across her nose and forehead greets me with a wide smile. “How’s life over at The Rabbit Hole?”
“We’re all mad over there,” I say drily, slightly altering the Mad Hatter’s famous quote that is very appropriate for the dive bar.
She laughs, the bright, happy sound bouncing off the exposed brick wall and echoing in the shop. Though Eden suffered the tragic loss of her husband, she is one of the sweetest and purest people I’ve met since returning to Chicago. I don’t blame Knox for falling in love with her.
Speak of the ex-MMA-fighter-turned-tattoo-shop-owner…
He appears behind Eden, his huge frame nearly swallowing his girlfriend’s. Good God. Katherine deserves a medal of valor for birthing the giants in her family. With dark brown hair and beard; thick, muscled arms covered in ink; and a stare that would have Darth Vader sucking his thumb while crawling back to the Death Star, my stepbrother Knox was…intimidating. But then he cups the back of Eden’s head and presses a gentle kiss to her dark hair. The tenderness in his gaze as he peers down into her upturned face is so loving, so hungry that I glance away. Not because it makes me uncomfortable.
Well, that’s a lie. Itdoesmake me uncomfortable because I hate the pinch of envy and need in my chest. Which is ridiculous, since I don’t even want what they obviously feel for each other. I don’t…
“What’s up, Cypress?” Knox says in that gravel-rough but utterly sexy growl that must be another Gordon trait. “You here to see Jude?” Before I can answer, he turns back to Eden. “Bird’s just about ready to check out. Make sure he gets the family discount, okay?” Then returning to me, he jerks his head in one of those man-moves that could mean anything from “what’s up?” to “get over here” to “what do you think about the state of global warming?”
Interpreting this one as “follow me,” I do, moving through the swinging half door separating the lobby area from the tattooing area. He spots the plastic bag with takeout containers in it but remains quiet. Something I’ve noticed he does a lot in the three weeks I’ve been staying with Jude and started occasionally dropping by the shop. Knox isn’t what some people would call a Chatty Cathy.
“Well, look who’s come to see me,” Hakim Alston announces, stepping outside of his cubicle, his muscular arms outstretched. The Taye Diggs-ringer with long locs grins at me, beckoning me closer with a curl of his fingers. Snorting, I walk into his embrace, and he squeezes me tight, lifting me off my feet. He lowers me back to the floor, placing a loud, smacking kiss on my cheek. The tattoo artist is an outrageous but completely adorable flirt. “I knew you’d be back, Cy. I have that effect on people. They just can’t resist me.” He flexes his biceps, and I’m not going to lie. It’s impressive.
“No doubt. He’s like a flesh-eating virus that scientists haven’t found the cure for yet.” A dry, feminine voice drifts over the wall of the cubicle behind Hakim’s. Heaven—no, she prefers to be called V—rolls out into the entrance of her cubicle, her wild, dark curls a beautiful halo around her lovely face. The small, silver hoop piercing her eyebrow glints under the ceiling lights. “We’re slowly building an immunity though.” She snickers and smiles at me. “What’s up, Cypress?”
“Hey, V.” I learned the first day that she won’t respond to her given name for some reason.
“If we stop by The Rabbit Hole tonight, you think we can get free drinks?” Hakim grins. “Since we’re cool ’n’ all?”
Knox grunts. “Stop trying to pump her for free beer. Don’t you have a client waiting?”
Hakim rolls his eyes, sweeping a hand down the front of his body. “Don’t I always? What part of ‘in demand’ do you not understand, man?”
I snicker, and Knox gives another grunt. This time it might contain some humor, but since I’ve only been getting to know him again for three weeks, I can’t really tell.
“Jude’s using my room,” Knox informs me while heading toward a hall that branches off the bigger tattooing area. It also leads to the bathrooms, offices, and break room.
He pauses before the first closed door, knocking briefly before opening it. Inside, Jude is perched on a black, rolling stool, removing a pair of dark gloves. To the left of him, standing with his back to a long mirror, is a guy straight out of central casting for American Gladiator: clean-shaven head, tall, muscles on top of muscles, and tatted—including the one of a skeletal, hooded Grim Reaper adorning his right shoulder. It’s…amazing. Detailed. Stark. So realistic, I’m almost expecting the figure to hover off the guy’s tight, golden skin and slice the metal scythe through the air.
I look at Jude, and his forest-green eyes are already on me. My gaze drops to his hands, now free of the gloves. When I first met him, I remember thinking how his long fingers were strangely elegant for a man with such big…everything. But now it makes complete sense. They’re artist’s hands. Capable of creating such beauty, it’s magical. Capable of exquisite gentleness or a firm touch when needed. Capable of eliciting emotion with just a stroke, a design, a touch…
Inhaling past a suddenly constricted throat, I drag my too-obsessed scrutiny from his hands, up his Henley-covered torso, and to his face. But his warrior-angel features only kindle and stir the dancing flames low in my belly. Only worsen the tightening behind my navel. If I’m reliving how those gifted fingers drove me insane with pleasure, I’m also remembering how his wicked mouth stole my sanity with its greedy demand. How those eyes peered into mine, owning me just as his body claimed mine.
I’d thought the week after our night together had been torment with the dark, hot memories. That week has nothing on the last three. Living, sleeping just feet away from him with only his door and mine separating us…it’s been hell. Pure, dirty, twisty, erotic hell.
Sharing his space, breathing in his scent that permeates every room, sitting next to him and watching television on the rare nights we’re home together, his body heat reaching out to me, hearing that midnight-and-sex voice… Torture.
But by some divine miracle, we’ve kept it strictly platonic between us. Even though I’ve touched myself so many times to the image of him that I can’t even go to sleep without a Jude-induced orgasm, I’m clinging to that invisible but oh-so-tangible line. When my feet swing over the side of the mattress and hit the floor with every intention of heading in his bedroom’s direction, I remember who this battle is for: Mom.
So far, Dan has been holding up his end of the bargain. He shot me three emails with PAID receipts. But there still remain more bills, and as long as they hang over my head like the sword of Damocles, then my pussy is a Jude-Free zone.
But as he rises from the stool, his intense, scalpel-sharp eyes tracing my face like a brush of fingertips over my eyebrows, lids, cheeks, mouth, and jaw, I’m almost grateful for the stipulations handcuffing me. Because this man…
I exhale and duck my head on the pretense of studying the giant in the corner.
