Inked

In bed, out of bed, up against the wall—I’m at her command.

“Give me something to celebrate getting free of him even if it wasn’t on my terms,” she demands.

“How much have you had to drink tonight, sweetheart?”

Her brow puckers as she holds her hands out in front of her. She’s wearing a bracelet, a pretty little toy with a heart and key on it. Had that fucker given it to her or had she bought it for herself? “Four. No—five drinks.”

“You trust me?”

“Absolutely not,” she says, proving she’s as smart as she looks. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Firebird.” I drag the Sharpie over her skin, bringing to life the image I see in my head. Maybe she won’t appreciate wearing a Russian fairy tale on her skin, but she’s not timid; and bold black, orange and red lines tracing the equally strong lines of her back feel right.

“You’re a man of few words, Vik.” Her lashes drift down as she exhales.

“Don’t fall asleep on me.”

She shakes her head. “Then don’t bore me.”

“Bitch,” I say tenderly. “Firebird’s a thief and hard to catch. She almost gets busted stealing the king’s apples when the king sets his sons to catch whoever’s been trespassing on his shit. Ivan gets a hand on her, but all he’s left with is a single feather. She leaves and he spends fucking forever chasing after her.”

“That’s the entire story?” She yawns, turning her face into the leather.

“Only part I’m inking here. Yeah?”

“Okay.”

I embrace the familiar adrenaline rush as I draw on her lower back, sketching the outline of a bird, wings outstretched to take flight to freedom. Her tail curls down, teasing, flirting, broadcasting a fuck you to the man she’s leaving behind in the king’s orchard. This is my skin, my piece of her to ink, to own, to give back to her filled up with the story she’s shared with me. Right now, I own her and she’s mine. She relaxes into my touch, my calloused fingers scraping gently, carefully over her skin, preparing her. Fuck playing by the rules.

I grab my needle and brush my mouth over her ear. “This is gonna hurt so good.”

CHAPTER TWO (#u115d2751-7af2-5889-bd97-c1244875cbf1)

Harper

VIK DOESN’T REMEMBER ME.

The hottest man I’ve ever touched—and thank You, Jesus, I’ve touched this man—introduces himself as if I’m a stranger. As if he’s never kissed me, never put his dick inside me, never made me see stars because he felt so damn good. High school seniors, a keg of beer and a wild party were apparently a recipe for oblivion.

Even through the rubber gloves he wears, the heat and strength of him sears me. It’s weirdly seductive, his soft touch. Or maybe I’m lonelier than I thought to find comfort in the simple brush of fingers against skin. I’m paying him to give me this contact, and I’m far drunker than I should be if I’m in a tattoo parlor.

Today—tonight—is a day for firsts.

He hums, blond hair falling around his face as he sets the needle against my back. The first touch stings, the bright, rough bite blossoming into something rougher and darker. I push down into the seat to escape the burn but there’s no out for me. Why am I here?

Because the man you thought you’d marry locked you out.

Because you do the same things over and over and you want different.

Because your life plan just hit an unexpected brick wall.

The sound that escapes my mouth is embarrassingly weak. I don’t have to do this. I can go. He finds new skin with the needle and I whimper.

“Breathe.” He pins me in place with one big hand. I should get up. Should tell him I’ve changed my mind. I had no idea this would hurt so much but when he scratches that needle over my skin, thin, wicked lines cut into me so deep I feel them everywhere. His thumb rubs back and forth over the untouched, uninked part of me in soft counterpoint.

I twist my head to glare at Brooklyn. “I blame this on you.”

She cackles, fishing her phone out of her jacket. Instead of offering sympathy, she immortalizes me for Facebook posterity. “You said you wanted to move on. That you wanted to do something bold and brave to commemorate this particular life milestone.”

“I said that after two dirty martinis,” I protest.

Vik hums, leaning closer. He hurts me. Part of me wants to kick Brooklyn’s ass for talking me into this, but the rest of me just wants Vik closer and closer. To touch me more, to ease the sting his big hands create. Or maybe it’s the quiet strength in the way he holds me in place, soothing and hurting and making something beautiful out of the pain.

Thankfully, Brooklyn provides a distraction. “Still counts.”

“She’s an IRS auditor,” I mutter as Brooklyn flips me the bird. She’s minutes from passing out hard, her eyes already half-closed.

Behind me, Vik snorts. “That true?”

“Brooklyn doesn’t look like a CPA, but trust me. You should be really, really scared if she ever goes through your books. She’ll find every secret you tried to hide.”

“You could come join me on the dark side,” she crows. “But nope. You have to hang with the investment crowd, making all that lovely money. You didn’t need the douchebag for his bank account, so I hope the man had a magic dick.”

The needles buzz, the pain burning and melting into something fiercer as Vik works. I take a deep breath, counting through the waves of pain. I can do this.

I want to do this.

Vik

“Tell me more about this magic dick.” Harper tenses as I move the needle over her skin, but a grin lights her face.

“He was pretty,” she says. “Everywhere.”

Blondie—Brooklyn—raises a brow. “But did he know what to do with his joystick? Because otherwise it’s just a handle to lead him around by.”

Harper snickers. “The man could play games for hours. He always made it to the bonus level and he’s my all-time highest scorer.”

“That’s because you hadn’t met me yet,” I tell her.

Might be a good idea to keep my mouth shut. I consider the possibility for a handful of seconds before discarding it. Why hold back?

“Are you aware that you have no filter?” Harper’s hands flex on the bench, opening and closing as she takes what I give her. She starts to say something else, but then winces, sucks in a breath and freezes. This is the point where some people quit, abandoning my chair, and others bitch and curse. You have to ride out the pain, find its rhythm, lose yourself in each wave. There’s a magic moment when you pop to the top, finding the crest, and you’re fucking flying in a whole other place.

I lay another, deeper line of ink into her skin. “Why putt down the highway of life when you can ride balls-out?”

“Do you like riding, Vik?” Harper’s voice is husky and amused, a thread of discomfort just beneath the surface. She has the strangest, sexiest effect on me. I shouldn’t want to lean down and kiss each raw line I’ve etched into her back. Lick the straight, strong line of her spine until she melts for me. She’s a client, and whatever fucked-up shit goes on in my head, it stays there.

“Yeah,” I say roughly. “I ride. I’m a member of the Hard Riders MC.”