Inked

by Anne Marsh

  The old guy pats his crotch. “Keep my assets right here.”

  Ooo-kay.

  Vik clearly inherited his sense of humor from his dad.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Vik

  I MAKE HARPER NERVOUS. She fidgets with the folder she’s holding and then twitches the sassy bow tie on the front of her blouse. Fuck me, but that blouse is killing me. The woman has a serious fetish for all things bow-tied and I’m torn between wondering how she’d feel if I showed up at her place wearing just a bow tie and nothing more, and asking her if she’d let me tie her up.

  Or untie her.

  One swift tug and that bow comes undone. It taunts me as she sashays across the room toward me, all long legs in that prim, black skirt. Am I hard? Fuck yeah, especially when she slides on a pair of glasses. Today’s glasses are bright green, beer bottle green, grass green, fucking Emerald City green. A man can only hope she’s got the panties to match.

  “You got a different pair of glasses for each outfit?”

  Harper opens her mouth, maybe to shoot me down, but my dad busts in first.

  “So how long have you two known each other?”

  Getting my dad here this morning took a combination of bribery and blackmail. Given his never-ending interest in my love life (which is nonexistent, unlike my sex life), I may have let him think that Harper’s potential girlfriend material and that he’d be doing me a favor by giving me an excuse to visit her office. Given his unwavering interest in pairing me off, he was happy to help.

  Harper looks at him over the edge of her glasses. “Is our being acquaintances a problem?”

  “Not at all. You two make a cute couple. You want my blessing, you got it.” My dad polishes off doughnut number two as he drops that conversational bomb, and I don’t think the look of satisfaction on his face has anything to do with the maple glazed he just consumed. Nope. He’s convinced that I’ve finally found me a girl—and he’s not wrong. It’s just that we’re fuck buddies rather than lovers, and he’s gonna find that disappointing.

  Harper inhales sharply. Yeah, she’s got something to say. “Your son and I are friends, Mr. Ilin.”

  It’s cute how she pokers up. Unfortunately, her righteous indignation is wasted because with each agitated breath she takes, the buttons on her blouse gape. Her eyes sparkle with something. Ire, gas, sheer orneriness—I don’t care. She’s beautiful. Plus, there’s no way I don’t admire the show she’s putting on for me. I lean sideways just a little. Can’t quite tell if that’s a beige bra or a white bra she’s rocking.

  “Eyes up here,” she says drily.

  See? I still blame her.

  My dad nudges me. Any harder and he’d crack a rib. “Always listen to the lady you’re dating.”

  Harper’s gaze swings toward him, a look of complete what the fuck painted on her pretty face. She’s not taking the news of our coupledom without some protests, it seems.

  I stretch out my legs, my boots invading her space beneath the desk. She jumps like I’ve goosed her and glares at me. Go along with it, I mouth silently.

  She jerks her attention back to the folder in front of her. “I’m not sure how we can help you.”

  I don’t miss a beat. “I can make suggestions.”

  The look she levels on me is glacial. Christ, that just makes me want to warm her up. “Perhaps you should step outside while I discuss your father’s finances with your father.”

  I shake my head. You know, just in case I’m no longer speaking English. “I stay.”

  She shoves her glasses farther up her nose and gets this cute, irritated look on her face. “Give me a reason.”

  Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t be wrong about asking me to leave. But these aren’t normal circumstances. Sure, my old man mistakenly thinks that Harper and I are dating. He also routinely thinks it’s 1955, that it’s Monday and that he has a bank account full of dollars just begging to be spent. Oh, and he also hasn’t filed a tax return in five years.

  I lean forward, cross my arms over my chest. Harper’s eyes fly to my chest and then shoot back to my face. Since we’re at her work and we’re not alone, I do my best to ignore her interest. I’ll remind her about it later. What Harper really likes are numbers, so I’ll give her that.

  “Item one? He’s my dad. That trumps everything as far as I’m concerned. We’re family, so I’ve got him. Item two? He’s been supplementing his social security by making personal loans to his neighbors in Happy Vegas Valley Trailer Park. And since he charges 27 percent interest, he hasn’t done too badly.”

  “It’s like them small incubator start-up thingies where you crowdfund crap,” my old man says defensively. “It was practically public service, if you ask me.”

  “Item three,” I continue, “he stores his profits in a fucking shoe box. For diversity’s sake, he also has ‘accounts’ in his mattress, his bookcase and under his sofa as previously mentioned. That means he’s got lots of cash, and no idea how to get it back on the books.”

  Harper visibly winces. I’m guessing that the shoe box organizational system is her idea of the seventh level of hell. She starts asking my dad a series of questions about how much income he’s interested in seeing from his investments and how risk-averse he is.

  I snort. My old man and risk are best friends.

  For a few seconds, there’s nothing but blissful quiet in Harper’s office. My dad works on polishing off his muffin, and Harper works out my dad, shifting papers from one stack to another. Where I see a mess, she sees a goddamned puzzle—and she’s about to fit the pieces together. And when my dad excuses himself “to find the little boy’s room,” I seize my chance.

  I’m out of my seat and around her desk in two seconds flat. Yes, I’m crowding her. Yes, I have no intention of moving anywhere but closer.

  “Space. Give me space.” She swats my thigh without looking up.

  Nope. That sure as fuck doesn’t work for me.

  I pull her up out of her seat, slide those glasses off her nose and kiss her. It’s a quick kiss because I don’t know how long my old man will be gone, but it definitely won’t be long enough for the kind of sexual marathon I want when I look at Harper. Christ, she’s gorgeous.

  Since I have to work with the time I have, I swing her around, shove her folders to one side and plant her cute ass on the freshly cleared real estate. “Have you ever come on your desk?”

  “What?” The look on her face is awesome—part cranky, part embarrassed...and part curious. Harper definitely has a dirty side.

  “I’ll take that as a no. Up.” I tug on the hem of her skirt.

  She lifts obediently before she thinks about it. “No, wait. What are you doing?”

  “Showing you some friendly appreciation.” I fold her skirt up to her waist because Harper won’t be a fan of wrinkles. She likes her shit well-organized and pressed. She squirms, but I don’t think she’s trying to get away. More like I’ve got her off balance and she’s deciding if she likes it.

  Her panties are a barely-there scrap of yellow, the kind of thong that yields zero panty line. It’s probably a purely practical decision on Harper’s part, but I can see the outline of her pussy peeking through the lacy front like it’s saying hello. Or touch me. I’m always happy to give a lady what she wants. I yank them off and shove her legs over my shoulder.

  “You’re gonna have to be quiet, Harper. Can you do that for me?”

  She glares at me, but she doesn’t close her legs. Of course, given the fact that my shoulders are now holding her thighs apart, shutting me out is gonna be difficult. But her face pinkens up and she’s not saying no. Since we both know I’m always gonna listen to her, that’s a big hell, yeah in my book. I get straight to work on making sure that Harper has a very, very good day at work.

  She’s already wet and slick, so somebody’s been thinking na
ughty, work-inappropriate thoughts. I run my thumbs up her thighs and open her up wide. She squeak-moans, but she keeps the volume low enough that the rest of the office won’t come rushing in. Good girls deserve rewards, so I kiss her.

  I cover her clit with my mouth, circling it with my tongue.

  She moans a little louder and promptly slaps her hand over her mouth. I forgot to specify staying still, so she starts wiggling and bucking around her desk as I tongue her. She tastes even better than I remember. I lick and suck, shoving two fingers deep inside her as I look for and find her G-spot. She moans my name and tenses.

  Harper’s not a screamer. We established that two weeks ago, when I fucked her senseless against the window in her hotel room. She just sort of melts, coming undone at the edges as she comes. She shudders and tenses and then makes all these cute whimpering noises as I kiss harder and deeper, making her ride my mouth until she’s done.

  She flops back on her desk, panting. She’s all loose and relaxed, and she looks like she just had a midday orgasm. At work. When there are a million suit-wearing people walking past her closed door. She must remember that because about two seconds after I switch her brain off with the mother of all orgasms, she sits bolt upright. Guess the thinking part of her has come back online.

  “Your father,” she whispers, her face flaming red. She practically throws herself at me, trying to scramble off the desk. Since she’s come and I’ve had my fun, I help her off if only because the way her legs wobble for a second makes me feel like a fucking king. “I’m at work.”

  “Think of me as a fringe benefit.” I pull her skirt down and retie the bow at her throat. I always put away my toys when I’m done playing with them. Her panties, however, go in my pocket. Since I don’t get to come, I deserve a souvenir for later.

  “He thinks we’re dating.”

  “Yeah.” I scrub a hand over my forehead. Harper’s scent is all over me and my dick’s imitating an iron bar. “Got to admit that’s a challenge, but here’s what I’m thinking. We’re friends, right?”

  “Right.” She stares at me, suspicion written all over her gorgeous face.

  “So that means I have your back,” I explain. “And you have mine. Right now, I need to keep my old man happy. What I really want is for him to get off my back about dating someone, so if he thinks we’re a couple, problem solved.”

  “But we’re not dating,” she protests.

  “No,” I agree. “I’m not a relationship guy. I don’t want to be your boyfriend—just your fuck buddy.”

  “And friends,” she says.

  “Friends who bang,” I agree. I can hear my old man coming down the hall. He’s loud, but he sounds happy and he’s taking his sweet time. I suspect this is intentional—after all, we’re family and he knows exactly what he’d be doing if the situation were reversed and he had a hot investment banker alone in an office.

  “He’s an old man and he’s confused. He’ll likely forget the meeting ten minutes after he leaves, so no worries. All you have to do is pretend for now. You do that for me, and I’ll owe you one.”

  From the way Harper’s eyes widen, she thinks owe you one is code for doing her right in the bedroom. She doesn’t say no, though. She stays silent until my dad wanders back in and we resume our meeting.

  Exactly thirty minutes after we barged through her office door, she’s steering us back out. For two seconds I contemplate refusing to go, but that won’t get me anywhere. Plus, my dad really does need her help—and Harper will rock what she does. She’d never settle for coming in second or third when she could be the winner.

  “I’ll do my best, Mr. Ilin.” She pats my dad on the hand and he beams back at her, completely smitten.

  I put my old man into the elevator and then I pause, running my fingers down her cheek. Nobody can see us here, not unless they pull the security tapes, so it’s safe enough. She’s earned the same respect I have when I’m on club business—I won’t jeopardize her job.

  “Think about my offer,” I say. “Booty call. You. Me. Maybe a real fucking bed an entire night this time.”

  “I—”

  She shakes her head like she’s got no idea what to say to me. Yes works just fine.

  “Bring the shoes.” I step inside the elevator and let the door slide closed.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Harper

  MEN THINK ABOUT sex a lot. Researchers have spent thousands of man-hours studying the issue, and it’s a hard one, all puns intended. And so while it might be a stereotype that men think about sex 24/7, they definitely do it often.

  And so do women.

  Especially this woman.

  Turns out I’m an overachiever in the thinking-about-sex department, particularly when it comes to Vik. Professionalism flies out the window, and when I work on his dad’s portfolio, I daydream about having sex with him. Vik that is—not his dad. Freud would have a field day with that one. My week goes something like this: research investments for Mr. Ilin Senior, contemplate sweeping Vik away to Bora Bora, Paris or the top-floor penthouse at the Bellagio, and telling him he has no choice but to indulge in all my dirty fantasies because I’ve just earned his dad a million bucks. Drag my head back to the numbers on the computer screen in front of me. Rinse and repeat.

  Don’t judge. It’s no more twisted (or likely) than all those billionaires-buying-virgins schemes that top the bestseller lists.

  In reality, I put together a kick-ass portfolio for his dad, and then I do the same thing for ten other new clients. Yes, I’ve been a busy girl. So busy that on Friday, one of the senior partners stops by to congratulate me and let me know that they’ve got their eyes on me. I can practically smell the promotion.

  Better yet, I outperform all my colleagues, which means that I win the Friday prize, a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Senior management sees the prize-giving as a chance to foster a little friendly competition between us junior firm members, while doling out cheap pats on the back for another successful sixty-hour work week. The champagne’s a fun bonus, but it’s not the real prize and everyone knows it. There are five of us junior planners, and we’re cheerfully cutthroat about the business of getting ahead. No one’s going to kneecap me in a parking structure or poach my idea, but everyone wants to be The One, the junior employee who gets the golden invitation to join the big boys and girl at the next level. In this spirit, my coworkers hand me a package of straws to go with my new bottle of fizz, so that I can better suck up. I laugh so hard I almost pee myself.

  I may not have scored me a badass biker, but my Friday drunky is now a sure thing. I grab my bottle and my things and head home. Home. My new condo still feels unfamiliar and sterile, like I’m camped out in a super-chic office or Airbnb. Instead of tackling the sadly small mountain of moving boxes (honestly it’s more hill than mountain), I fill up my kitchen sink with ice cubes and submerge my champagne. I’m light on glasses thanks to the Douche’s self-serving division of our household goods, so after I change into my pajamas, I end up drinking out of a juice glass decorated with red cherries. I’m not entirely certain that’s a regulation-size pour, but down the hatch it goes. In the spirit of adulting, I drop a few raspberries in there, thus covering one if not two of the major food groups.

  The three glasses of champagne I down in the next hour undoubtedly explain how my thumbs end up searching for Vik’s contact info in my phone. I plan out my approach while I finish glass number four. The beauty of drinking and planning is that every idea seems like genius. Instead of a carefully weighted list of pros and cons, my thoughts gravitate more toward why the fuck not?

  Remember how I said that women think about doing it, too? I’m all about sexual equality. In fact, the number of times I’ve fantasized about Vik this week puts me firmly in overachiever territory. Banging, knocking uglies, shaboinking... I’ve thought about it and then mentally mapped out the steps it would take to bring
those activities to fruition.

  Okay, fine. Maybe I do spend too much time making lists and outlining steps, but if I ever get my hands on Vik Ilin, I’ll be making both of us happy. My phone buzzes in my hand.

  Huh.

  Some hussy has propositioned my biker while I’ve been thinking deep thoughts. I have no idea how this happened, but she’s quite blunt and straightforward.

  ME: U busy? If not, come have sex with me. Plz.

  She has lovely manners.

  She’s also pretty shameless for someone drunk-texting at 11:50 p.m.

  Under ordinary, less inebriated circumstances, I’d give that girl a standing ovation. Self-control’s not her strong point, but she’s identified a want and gone for it.

  Fuck me.

  What was I thinking? I’ve just texted Vik and tried to set up a booty call. You know how some corporate email programs have that nifty feature where you can recall an email after you send it because instead of attaching the business proposal your boss requested, you forwarded last night’s home porn movie? I totally need that now for my texts. Sure, I pretended to be adding spontaneity to my life. But now that the universe is all wish granted?

  I need a do-over.

  A delete key.

  An enormous freaking Magic Eraser to blot the last two minutes out of my life and Vik’s memory.

  11:53.

  11:54.

  It’s like watching the countdown clock on a detonator that’s wired up to a ton of TNT. Any second now, Vik will glance down at his phone and see I’ve propositioned him. Courage seems like a great idea, the ultimate personal high, an absolute must-do on my personal bucket list. Now that I’ve taken the plunge, however, I realize that the problem with personal highs is the plunge. I’m free-falling off a fucking emotional mountain and the ground’s coming up fast.

  11:56.

  11:57.

  I’m not good at waiting. Timetables are my friend. Perhaps Vik is asleep. Or his phone is dead. Or he’s busy banging some other chick. No, scratch that. Perhaps he dropped his phone in the toilet and it’s permanently ruined and he’ll never, ever see my text message.