Beautiful Ink

by Nicole Reed

  “I can’t last for much longer,” he says, pumping in and out several times before freezing on top of me. His yell of completion sends chills down my spine.

  My eyes open to look up at him. His gaze never leaves mine as he continues to drive himself into me. Something feels so incomplete. My body yearns for something more. I can’t look at him as I move underneath him, needing to reach something out of my grasp. But all too quickly, he removes himself from me.

  “No,” I cry, my eyes finding his.

  “Babe, I’m sorry. Just give me a couple of minutes,” he says, moving away from me.

  I watch as he climbs from the bed. He stands before me, the first naked male body I have ever seen. My eyes roam freely, committing his body to memory. He reaches for the condom he is wearing to dispose of it.

  “Hels,” he says, stepping closer to his bed. He reaches his hand out to tentatively touch my cheek. His fingers fan out to run through my hair, combing it back from my face.

  I watch his face lean down toward mine as he tugs the back of my head to meet his lips. Our mouths mesh together, tongues sliding against one another. He pulls back from me, his breathing harsh in the silence.

  “I love you.”

  I know what he wants to hear in return. I see his eyes searching my face for the only answer he requires from me. My eyes stare back into his, silently begging him not to force this.

  My emotions are all over the place, this all-consuming need beating a shallow rhythm underneath my skin. I understand now what I have read in my books. It all makes sense, including why women will lie, steal, and cheat for this one pleasure. I lust for him, but I know that I don’t love him. I want him to fuck me—just thinking the word sends a thrill through my system—but that is it. He can have my body, but my heart screams it can never be his.

  “I know,” I say, closing my eyes.

  Days pass in a constant hurry. My time with Vin seems to be rushing to an ultimate destination, one that my body slowly hungers for. He has proven to be a friend in deeds rather than words. Over the past month he stopped nagging for information from me and concentrated on helping me live in the moment. He hasn’t tried to touch or kiss me since that night, being the friend I requested. Ugh.

  I never knew how much I was missing out on life. Of course I have heard of the saying, stop to smell the roses, but living it is another matter. My entire existence changed overnight, but I can’t tell him how much. I have given myself a reprieve for just a fraction of time to step out of my self-made prison.

  He is unbelievably amazing. I spend hours watching him work on the house. The love for what he does is evident in his craftsmanship. It in turn creates a greater passion for my job. When he has time and the days are warm, he reads to me as we sit in the gazebo. We both find that we have a joint love for humorous poetry and, subsequently, dirty limericks. When I sometimes get introspective, anxiously thinking about the past or future, it’s like he knows what I am doing and brings me out of myself. And the board games he loves to play, well, they surprisingly charm me instead of annoy.

  “Your turn,” he says, yelling from the living room of the house.

  “Just a minute,” I reply, pouring the last of the cherry soda in my cup.

  I return to find him lying on the floor, resting on his stomach, the atmosphere cozy with the fire burning in the large hearth and music playing almost as an afterthought in the background. I sit down across from him, cross-legged, a checkerboard between us. He counts the black pieces he has accumulated from me, a superior gleam in his eyes. There are way more red pieces left on the board than black. Damn it!

  “Did you cheat while I was gone?” I raise my eyebrow at him.

  “Are you questioning my integrity?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m offended that you think I have to cheat. You’re way too easy to beat at checkers.”

  “Is that so?” I narrow my eyes.

  He lowers his head, but not before I catch the smile on his face. When he looks at me, he is serious once again. “No offense, but I pretty much kick your ass at everything. Is there any game that you are good at?”

  I think for a second. Sadly, there isn’t, but I’m not saying that to him—two can play this game. I glance back at him. “Well, I am really good at poker,” I say, nonchalantly.

  “Poker, huh?”

  “Yeah, you know the strip kind,” I say, innocently biting my bottom lip.

  His eyes widen, and his mouth drops open. He jumps up from his prone position on the floor and runs down the hallway. I am shocked. What is he doing? Where is that idiot going? He comes running back, his socks sliding across the hardwood floor before stopping, and dropping back down in front of me. His smile can’t possibly get any wider.

  “I’m in,” he says, dropping something between us.

  I glance down to see a deck of playing cards. The laugh that bursts from me echoes throughout the house as his joins mine. I can’t stop the rolling laughter that consumes me, my abdomen literally aching from the muscles tightening.

  “You did not just do that,” I finally stop long enough to say.

  “I never joke about strip poker. Ever,” he says, shaking his head at me.

  “Not going to happen,” I tell him.

  “One game,” he counters, his eyes daring me.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head.

  “C’mon. One game. That’s it,” he says, stopping me from saying anything else. “You can’t throw down that challenge and not come through. Tease.”

  His words don’t offend me because I know that he is joking, but they still sting a bit—enough that I actually give in.

  “One game,” I say.

  “Oh, yeah!” He pumps his fist in the air. “Alright, ante in,” he says, rubbing his hands together.

  What have I gotten myself into? I glance down, realizing that I don’t have much going for me in the extra clothing options. No socks to start with. I have my jeans, a tank top, and a pullover, not counting my lace panties. The tank is more of a comfy bra, so… nipple city. I look to see him staring at me.

  “You first.” I tell him.

  “I am not scared,” he says playfully. He stupidly tries to be sexy as he slowly rolls his sock down before removing it, throwing it between us. “Thank God for cold feet.”

  “Really?” I roll my eyes at him. “Wimp.” Actually, I am jealous. I took my socks off earlier because I love the feel of the cold hardwood floor beneath my feet. Alright. Man-up. I reach for the edges of my pullover, making sure to separate it from my tank top before pulling it up and over my head. The static electricity makes my hair rise unattractively in the process. I ceremonially toss my pullover in with his sock.

  I watch the laughter leave his eyes and something else replaces it. Need. His gaze switches from my eyes to my chest. My nipples hardening have nothing to do with the cold. I’ll give him credit, though. He is really trying to keep his eyes on my face.

  “Vin?” I snap my fingers to get his attention.

  “Uh… yeah. What?” His confusion is endearing and sexy as hell.

  “Deal the cards,” I remind him.

  He snaps out of his daze, laughing to himself. He reaches for the deck, getting them ready.

  “Okay, this is what we’re playing for: if I win, you have to keep your shirt off and let me ask you about your tattoos.”

  I start to interrupt him, but he shakes his head.

  “Hear me out. You don’t have to tell me exactly why you got them, just something about them. And if there is one you don’t want to talk about, you can say,” he says, pausing, “just say… next. Now if you win, you get to keep my stinky sock. Deal?”

  “Vin,” I start to say. “I don’t…”

  “Wait. You are the professed strip-poker goddess. What do you have to lose?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Keller, shut up and look at your cards.”

  I look down to see he has already dealt them. I know how to play… I’m
just not that good at cards. Just like board games. Me and my big mouth.

  “Nothing wild. Five-card poker. Sound good?”

  I nod. “One game. Let’s do this.”

  Within minutes he has kicked my butt.

  “You lied,” he says, accusingly.

  “Yeah, lucky for you.” I throw my cards at him and turn to grab a large pillow off the couch. I place it on the floor in front of the fire while he places the cards back in the pack. My eyes follow his hands. He has the sexiest, long, elegant fingers. What are you doing? I fall back on the pillow, resting my head.

  “Do you want something else to drink?” he asks, stoking the fireplace behind us before sitting.

  “No,” I tell him.

  He turns to position himself so that he is lying next to my body. He props his head on his hand, looking down at me.

  “Why the teacup?” He points on the underside of my arm.

  “You don’t waste any time,” I tell him.

  “Time with you, Keller, is a precious commodity.”

  Something about his words sounds almost desperate. I look up at him, trying to figure it out. When I can’t, I decide to answer him.

  I raise my arm, pointing to the teacup. “My absolute love for coffee. I didn’t want a manly mug, so this is the next best thing.” The heat from the fire overly warms my bare arm, so I lower it.

  I watch him raise his hand so that his finger can trace over the different art pieces decorating my arm. His touch surpasses my skin, reaching deep down inside of me, stealing my breath away. I try to stay unaffected by his movements to no avail. He finally comes to a slow stop on another tattoo.

  “What about this? What do these numbers mean?” He points to a date inside an intricate design all in black ink. I almost say next, but it really isn’t something that has anything to do with the club—which is what I can’t divulge.

  I take a deep breath. “It’s the date my sister and father died.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, his hand reaches for mine, gently squeezing it.

  “It feels like a lifetime ago,” I answer honestly.

  “What about the sexy reaper?” He points to a female grim reaper I have on my forearm in the style of a pin-up.

  “Next,” I say, not hesitating. This one I got for Sandman, in honor of him sharing stories of my dad with me. He loved it, getting the exact replica on his calf. I don’t want to explain how I know someone named Sandman or that he is exactly as his name suggests—the MC’s man at arms. A foot soldier. A known killer.

  He takes a slow breath before moving his finger to another tat. “What about the pair of blue eyes on your arm?”

  “Next,” I say again. We are not going there. He has to notice that they’re a pair of men’s eyes. Well, of course he does. Duh.

  “Okay, this one,” he says, placing his fingertip gently on top of my left breast. “I think it’s pretty self-explanatory, but I am going to ask anyway.”

  He points intimately to an anatomically correct red heart with blue veins and chambers inked on my breast. No sissy valentine heart here. It has a black chain wrapped around it with a lock in front. Self-explanatory, my ass.

  “Next.”

  “Are you kidding me?” He stares down at me.

  “Next,” I say, returning his stare.

  He falls back to the floor, his head next to mine on the pillow. I look over to see him gazing at the ceiling, a tic pulsing in his jaw. In most men, I’ve learned that usually means they are frustrated. I watch him close his eyes and I do the same.

  We lie here, listening to the crackle of the fire and the music softly playing. I hear the deep baritone of his voice and open my eyes. His head is turned toward mine. He watches me as he sings the lyrics to the current song. Our faces are only inches from each other.

  “Don’t know what I’m gonna do… about these feelings inside,” he sings, humming the rest. His fingers rub against my cheek.

  I can’t turn away from him. His eyes move down to my lips, hungrily staring at them. He turns on his side to inch closer to me and my body mirrors his. We lie facing each other, not saying a word, our eyes saying everything we can’t. I’m not sure who moves first, but enough is enough.

  Our lips touch, taste, tell the story that is locked inside. It isn’t just a kiss, but a song. A poem. The touch of his mouth wakes my very existence, every cell of it. I’m drowning in desire, my body becoming alive for him. What is it about him that has this effect on my self-control?

  His arms lock around me, rolling me to my back. I grasp his shoulders holding him close to me. I never want this to end: his lips devouring mine… his tongue stroking mine… his body covering mine. It feels right. I can’t deny I long for more, much more.

  A phone rings somewhere in the house.

  “Shit,” he says, pulling back from me to sit up.

  My lips chase his with a whimper. I capture them, linking us once again. His tongue dances with mine, kissing me back with as much vigor. But he still continues to move away from me.

  “I have to answer that,” he says, staring at me. His arms hold mine in place. “Fuck it.” He brings his mouth back to my lips.

  This kiss is one of ownership and I’m entirely unsure who wants to own whom. His mouth moves aggressively against mine. I feel his hands everywhere: running though my hair, down my body, over the crotch of my jeans. It all would be perfect if the damn phone would stop ringing. One minute it’s his cell phone and the next the home phone rings. When he doesn’t answer one, the other starts again.

  “What the hell is that?” I ask, looking around, desperate to shut it up.

  His lips follow mine, capturing my mouth again. We reach for each other, with him half pulling me into his lap. I can feel exactly how much I am wanted underneath me.

  “Goddamn it!” He stops, pressing his forehead against mine.

  We both breathe heavily.

  “Stay here. Don’t you dare move, Keller,” he pleads with his eyes. He sits me down beside him, before standing up.

  I look up, immediately noticing the bulge in his jeans.

  “Nice,” I say cheekily. My smile threatens to crack my face.

  “Give me two seconds and I’ll show you nice,” he says, looking down at me, smiling himself.

  He turns to jog over to his cell phone. “This is… Vin,” he answers, looking at the screen to see who is calling. “And it better be damn good.”

  My body is still burning, not because of the roaring fire beside me, but the one in me. I squeeze my thighs tightly together to try and stifle it. I can’t help but hear his side of the conversation.

  “What? When? Well, how long? Fuck! Can you? No, I understand. Tonight?” He turns to glance at me, before looking away. “Shit. If I have to. No, I understand. Yes, sir. I’ll be there by twenty-two hundred hours.”

  I watch him press the end key, rubbing his hand over his face, before turning back to me.

  “Problem?” I curiously ask.

  “Work. My grandfather needs me on another job.”

  “Your grandfather ex-military?”

  “What?” He looks confused.

  “You gave him military time.” Is he lying to me?

  “Sorry. Yeah, he is.” He walks toward me.

  “Whatever,” I say, standing while yanking my pullover back on.

  “Keller, don’t,” he says, reaching his hand out.

  I shrug away from him. Something tells me he isn’t being forthcoming with his story.

  “What? Do you think I am lying to you?”

  “I don’t know, Vin. Are you?”

  “No. Do you want me to get him back on the phone, because I will?”

  “I really don’t care,” I say, sliding on one of my canvas tennis shoes. I reach under the chair to grab the other one, when I feel him close behind me.

  He places his hands on my arms, spinning me around. “Stop it,” he says, his eyes search mine. “Don’t ruin tonight. Just talk to me.”

 
“Was that really your grandfather?” I glare at him.

  “Yes. Who do you think it was?” He pauses, before shaking his head. “It wasn’t another woman if that is what you are thinking.”

  “No,” I say, unconvincingly. “Not another woman, but maybe a friend warning you about someone back home.”

  “First off, I swear it isn’t about another woman. There are certain things that we don’t know about each other. And second, those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones,” he says, stepping away from me. “I really hate beyond belief having to end this day earlier than expected. But now I have to get out of here. I’ll call you tomorrow. Okay?”

  Is he dismissing me? I suddenly remember the shoe in my hand and launch it toward his face. My aim is precise, hitting him square in the nose. I haven’t been this angry in a long time. Well, since…

  “You did not just hit me in the face with your shoe,” he says, his voice low and angry. He reaches over to pick it up off the ground beside him, while rubbing his nose.

  “You better be glad I didn’t wear my shit-kickers tonight,” I say, bowing my chest out. I walk straight up to him and grab the shoe away. He doesn’t say a word as I slide it on. “Nice knowing you,” I tell him, turning to walk away.

  I only make it two steps before he grabs me from behind. He picks me up over his shoulder and carries me back to the couch, dropping me on top of the soft cushions.

  “You can’t do that,” I yell, moments before his body and mouth cover mine. I lose myself for about a minute, before he once again pulls back.

  “This isn’t easy for me either. My plate is full with getting this house done and other things, but you are important to me. Got it?”

  I start to shake my head, when he kisses the daylights out of me one more time. His lips become gentler, sweeter almost, before he pulls back.

  “Got it?” He whispers, looking down at me.

  “I got it,” I say, lost in his eyes.

  “Oh, my. That is so romantic,” Ginger says, dreamily looking outside the tattoo shop’s window.

  “I can’t believe you hit the bastard between the eyes and he came back for more. That is my kind of date,” Billy says, sitting on the corner of the counter, digging for every last kernel of caramel popcorn at the bottom of her Cracker Jack box.