Page 4 of Passion and Ink


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Unwise is leaving my classic, black 1970 Dodge Charger out on the street unlocked and the alarm disengaged. Unwise is ordering anything from The Rabbit Hole’s kitchen after midnight. Unwise is showing up late where I work at Hard Knox Ink, the tattoo shop my older brother owns, and risking an epic ass-chewing from Knox.

I’ve done all three at one time or another, so I know what I’m talking about. So with definite authority, I can state those are all foolish decisions.

But waylaying the new, hot-as-fuck waitress at the dive bar that not just my brother and the other artists from the shop patronize, but my ex tends to haunt, as well? That’s just stupid as hell. Justin-Bieber-pissing-in-a-bucket stupid as hell.

Maybe Ana’s text begging me to see her, to talk to her, was a blessing. A reality punch to the gut. I’m leaving Chicago in a matter of weeks. And knowing my luck, getting involved with anyone before I go could mean another “Ana” happening. Not worth the risk.

At twenty-seven, I know that the time I thought with my dick has long passed. So siding with common sense and leaving before I could cave into that grinding, dark lust Ro stirred in me is the best idea I’ve had in days. I can pick up a six-pack on the way home and get drunk in my apartment, where it’s probably safer. Yeah, I’m out…

“I know what you’re thinking.” A voice to my right that doesn’t carry a hint of Chicago in it slides under my coat and shirt to stroke phantom fingers over my suddenly fevered skin. Shocked, I spin around and meet the dry, slightly mocking smile of my waitress. “But I’m on my break, and after spending hours in that place, believe me, you would prefer the smell of garbage over body odor and fried food.”

Here’s where I should offer another apology and get the hell out of here. As I stare into those oval-shaped eyes, the words shrivel up and lie limp on my tongue, useless.

In the dim lighting of the bar, I presumed her eyes were dark like her hair. But illumination from the bare light bulb above the door disabuses me of that assumption. They’re blue—the denim of brand-new jeans—with striations of lighter shades running through them. I bet when she’s angry, laughing—turned on—those paler flecks burn brighter. If I were an honest man, I would admit that testing the hypothesis heads tonight’s to-do list. But lying to myself and others has sort of become second nature.

“I thought there was a break room here.” At least according to Hakim, one of the artists at the shop. A break room and a separate bathroom for employees. He should know since he’s screwed one or five of the waitresses in there.

She shrugs a shoulder. “There is, but that’s not really getting away. Not when other people come in and out. But here”—she lifts a shoulder again—“I can hear myself think. It’s the only quiet I’ll get in the six hours I’m working.”

I arch an eyebrow as the sounds of a Chicago night filter through the air—the honks of passing cars, laughter, and loud chatter from people heading to The Rabbit Hole or the all-night diner across the street, the barking of a stray dog.

The corner of her pretty mouth quirks. “It’s a virtual library compared to inside,” she drawls. “But anyway, I’m lying.” A small smile curves one corner of her mouth. Sliding her hands into the pockets of her camel-colored coat, she dips her chin. “You looked upset when you left. I came to see if you’re okay.”

My throat tightens at her nonchalant words. Which is just odd. Of my brothers, Knox is the selective mute. Hands down Connor is the charmer—wasthe charmer.

Was.

Pain slices through me like a razor-sharp blade dipped in fire, and I curl my fingers into a fist, breathing deeply. I crawl away from the reminder in a desperate mental crab-walk and focus on the woman standing in front of me like a shipwreck victim clawing at pieces of burning wreckage.

Focus on the sleek, dark bob that falls a couple of inches below a delicate chin with the slight indentation that’s a cleft but not a cleft. On the slashes of eyebrows and sensual, slumberous eyes that turn a lovely, almost ethereal face into strong, powerful…stunning. Or the elegant slope of her nose, the dent above her top lip that looks like God personally pressed his finger to, creating the dip.

On the just-a-shade-too-wide mouth with its lush, overtly sensual curves that any man could be forgiven for imagining slipping and sliding over his chest and stomach before parting under the pressure of his cock. And I’m a man with more imagination than most.

Lust shudders through me in hot, body-shaking ripples. Please God, let her attribute the shivering to the cold. Although, truth be told, I can’t feel the cold with need turning me into a human bonfire.

Glancing away from her, I narrow my eyes on the nearly empty parking lot and convenience store on the other side of the fence. But, almost in a middle finger salute to me, God sends a brisk wind my way that carries the sweet, dark scent of roses in full bloom and apples. And underneath, the headier musk of golden, slightly dampened skin. Her. I haven’t been up close and personal with her body—haven’t hid my face in that special, sensitive spot where a woman’s neck and shoulder connect—but somehow, I know it’s her. And now I have a preview of the fragrance that would be thicker, headier between her thighs if I parted them and buried my tongue inside her.

I grind my teeth against the unwanted knowledge. God, 1. Me, 0.

“Why are you working here?” I ask the question harshly, more abruptly than I intended. But I’m fighting a losing battle against the grinding urge to press her against the battered brick wall behind her, claim that sin-and-temptation mouth, shove down those ass-and-thigh-hugging jeans, and push inside that hot, wet pussy until I bottom out.

Her shoulders straighten, and that gently dimpled chin notches up. “Because I need a check,” she says, the words carrying just enough bite to clue me in that I’m treading on sensitive ground like an overweight elephant.

I should back off, change the subject, or, I know, walk. The fuck. Away. But that itchy, restless thing that had me sitting in her section in the first place returns in full force, crackling underneath my skin and down my spine. It has me needing to push, to poke. To see those sky-blue striations in her denim eyes glow.

“You don’t belong here,” I state, my voice intentionally flat. Blunt. And truthful. She doesn’t. The impression struck me the minute I first saw her.

“Really?” She removes her hands from her pockets and crosses her arms. “And where, pray tell, do I belong?”

The sarcasm is as much of a warning to back off as her tone. Still, I ignore it. Maybe I’m purposefully trying to blow my chances of getting between her legs. Or maybe I just want to know more about her. This living, breathing dichotomy of delicacy and strength that has me more intrigued than I should be. Than I can afford to be.

“Somebody’s boardroom. Or a classroom. Or in an office with a view of Willis Tower and the skyline. That coat,” I add, nodding at her luxurious, wool outerwear that traces the sleek lines of her body and ends just above her knees. “No one who serves drinks and greasy food for a living could afford it.” I should know since I bought one similar to it for Mom a couple of years ago, and it’d set me back a cool fifteen hundred.

“There’s nothing wrong with serving drinks and greasy food,” she damn near growls. And fuck if that isn’t sexy. I want to hear that same sound wrapped around my name while her nails bite my back and her ankles ride my waist while I’m sinking balls-deep inside her.

My dick throbs in agreement even as my mind rails at me for the dirty, AVN Award-worthy images bombarding my brain.

“I didn’t say there was. Just that it isn’t you.” I move forward and gently but firmly grab her wrist, turning over her hand. Heat emanates from where I touch her. For the first time. It’s innocent, innocuous. But the pulling of my gut and hardening of my body say otherwise. As does the soft catch of her breath.