by Eden Bradley
“You can feel the history of the place, right here, where you can touch the stones,” he said quietly. “I don’t go to church. I don’t get that. But this feels sacred to me. This is some sort of divine beauty.” He reached out to stroke the underside of her chin with his fingertips, cradled it in his hand. “And so is this.”
His gaze was hot on hers, the gray smoke of his eyes penetrating. She swallowed, trying to breathe past the hard knot of hunger in her chest, in her body.
When he leaned in and brushed his mouth over hers, the sensation roared through her like fire; that hot, that electric. His hand went around the back of her head, pulling her closer, and he pressed his lips to hers, so soft and lush. She moaned against his mouth; she couldn’t help it. And when he parted her lips, slipped his tongue inside, she just came apart, her limbs going liquid and weak.
His mouth was hot, wet, his tongue sweet as it explored, thrust, swept over her teeth. She found her arms going around his neck, his skin warm beneath her grasping fingertips.
He pulled her in hard, one arm around her waist, until she was nearly in his lap. His body against hers was all hard muscle. She breathed in his scent, that dark, masculine scent becoming a part of the kiss, a part of the physical sensation.
She was going hot all over, hot and damp and weak with surging desire. Her fingers bit into his shoulders, his hands on her hard and hurting, he held her so tight. She didn’t care. All that mattered was his mouth on hers, their panting breath, the pure need swarming her body.
Bells went off in her head, a metallic clanging, growing louder…
He pulled back.
“Christ, Sophie,” he muttered.
It was then she realized the bells were coming from the chapel. Her head was reeling.
Tristan smoothed her hair from her face. He was still holding her. She didn’t care that they were in a cemetery, that making out on the steps of the mausoleum was probably some sort of desecration. All that mattered was that he was touching her.
His gaze was on hers. “I shouldn’t have done that. Not here.”
She understood what he meant. But even though the inevitable good girl in her knew it was wrong, it felt right. That she should be here with him, his hands still hot on her, the taste of him lingering on her lips.
“Tristan, don’t say that. It doesn’t matter. I mean, that we’re here. It made it…”
She stopped, shook her head. She couldn’t say it aloud.
“It made it better,” he murmured, finishing her thought.
She nodded, unable to speak as the intensity built between them once more. Simply sitting there, their minds working in sync. God, his eyes were the darkest shade of gray. Like burning charcoal.
“Tristan, I want you to tattoo me again.”
“What? When?”
“Now.”
“It’s too soon, Sophie. You need time to get used to the first one before you go any further.”
“I know what I want.”
He stared at her a moment. “Alright. Do you want to go now? Right now?”
“Yes. Please. Can we just do it?”
He stood up, pulled her with him and kept her hand in his as they silently walked back to the gates of St. Roch. It didn’t even matter that they weren’t looking at each other, the electricity was still there, arcing between them.
They got on his motorcycle and she wrapped her arms around his waist, loving the heat of his body pressed against her breasts, between her thighs. She ached all over, her body hungry for him. She needed him to touch her. To tattoo her.
Yes.
The ride back seemed to take forever. But finally they pulled up in front of Beneath the Skin. The sign was turned off, the shop closed. Tristan got off the bike, helped Sophie off. Even with his back to her as he unlocked the front door, she could feel the energy between them.
Inside, it was quiet and dark. Tristan stood at the doorway to the back room, held the curtain open for her. She moved past him, remembered the first time she’d done this same thing, breathed in his scent as she passed him, just as she’d done before. She felt an odd sense of isolation moving through the empty shop, a heavy sense of them being alone together. Her pulse was hot, racing.
Tristan turned on a light over his chair. “Come and sit down, Sophie.”
She did, watched as he sat on a swiveling stool and prepared his equipment. Just watching him move, hearing the buzz of the tattoo gun as he tested it, made her heart beat harder in her chest, made her legs go warm and weak.
Finally, he turned to her. “I have a feeling you know exactly what you want. Don’t you?”
Oh, if he had any idea…
“Yes.”
His eyes on hers were dark, glittering. “Tell me.”
“Cherry blossoms. A scattering of them across my back, from my left shoulder, starting just under the Kanji symbol, then kind of blowing in an undulating curve, over to the right side, then down to the left hip. And I want you to do them mostly in black and white, but with a few touches of pink. Is that alright? To add some color?”
“I’ll do it however you want me to. But you’re sure? That you want to be tattooed again? That you want your body marked in this way?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
Yes. Oh, yes…
“I’m going to free-hand it, rather than using a transfer, alright?”
“Yes. I trust you. I know it’ll be beautiful.”
He nodded. “I’ll need you to take off your shirt. Probably your bra, too. Here’s a towel; you can hold it over the front of your body.”
She took the towel, even though she hardly cared about covering herself. Her system was still thrumming with need; being naked in front of him would be perfect.
Such a sinner. Your mother is right.
She would worry about that later. Feel the guilt, which she was almost coming to enjoy.
God, you really are a mess!
She pulled her shirt over her head. Tristan turned away as she unsnapped her bra and laid it on the counter, held the towel over her breasts.
“Turn sideways in the chair, as you did the first time. It works better than laying you flat on the table.”
She nodded, swung her legs to the side, resting the front of her body on the arm of the vinyl chair.
He began with some sort of marking pen, sketching onto her skin. It tickled a little. Not as good as the tattoo gun, but she closed her eyes, let herself sink into the sensation.
He finished quickly.
“I’ll add more as I go. Do you want to look at it in the mirror before I start?”
“No. Just do it.”
He started the tattoo gun, the buzzing of it trembling through her body: pleasure, anticipation.
When he touched the gun to her skin, the anticipation turned to liquid lust. Her sex went damp, her nipples came up hard against the arm of the chair, the rough towel abrading the sensitive flesh. She pulled in a deep breath, blew it out, trying to get herself under control.
The tracing of the needle, a humming on her skin as he began to work, made her quiver inside. She flexed her toes, trying hard not to move. And every touch of the needle went through her as though he had his hand between her thighs.
“Are you alright, Sophie? Not too much pain? Your breath is coming fast.”
“No. No pain at all.”
No pain, just pleasure. Exhilarating. Ecstasy.
She had no idea how long she sat there in a state of exquisite arousal. All she knew was the touch of the needle, his gloved hands on her, smoothing over her skin as he wiped off excess ink. And his presence behind her: so strong, so purely male. And again that dark scent of him mixed with the ink.
He had completed work on her shoulder and moved across her mid-back, down to her lower back.
“I need you to roll down the top of your jeans so I can work on your hip, Sophie. Alright?”
“Yes. Of course.” She dropped the towel to do as he asked. She didn’t bother to pick it up. It was to
o good to be half-naked in the chair, with Tristan behind her. Her breasts ached, her nipples were painfully hard as she leaned into the arm of the chair, the vinyl warm against her skin. Almost impossible not to rub her thighs together to ease the tension there.
He was working again, drawing the needle over her needy flesh. The buzz of it drove into her, as it had before, deep inside her body.
If only it were him inside my body.
Surge after surge of pleasure as he moved the needle across her skin, pushing the ink in, beneath the surface. She could imagine his big hands, the intent expression on his face. She had never needed a man to touch her so badly in her life. And she swore she heard his breath hitching behind her, felt his warm exhalation on her bare back.
“Tristan…”
“Yes, I’m almost done.”
That wasn’t what she was going to say. What was she going to say? That she wanted him? Needed him to strip her bare and fuck her every bit as much as she needed him to tattoo her? Her mind was spinning.
His hand smoothed over her back in long, gentle strokes. She shivered.
“I’m done.”
She nodded, pulled in a breath and turned around in the chair.
His eyes went for a moment to her naked breasts, then back to her face, focusing on her mouth. He licked his lips. When his gaze met hers, his was dark, glossy.
“Christ, Sophie.”
CHAPTER
Five
He stripped his gloves off and went for her, pulling her face to his in a rough kiss. So hard, his mouth on hers, crushing her lips, bruising them. But it was exactly what she wanted.
He opened her lips with his tongue, thrust inside. And she pushed into him, pressed her breasts against his chest. He let her face go long enough to mutter, “Fuck, Sophie…” Then he pulled his shirt over his head and she had a moment to glimpse the red, thornbound heart pierced by a knife blade tattooed on his chest, before Tristan pulled her back in. The sight of it, the bloodred heart, the way the ink rode his flesh, made her sex flood with heat.
He kissed her again, harder this time, his hands buried in her hair. He was all wet heat. Lips, teeth and tongues, clashing, twining. Her body was on fire, the need for him melting her.
When he pulled his mouth from hers and moved his hands down to cover her breasts, she gasped, arced into his touch. Almost shocking, how soft his hands were; she could hardly stand it. Then he began to knead the soft, aching flesh. Pleasure moved through her, thick and slow, like honey in her veins. Her hands went to his wide shoulders; she loved the ripple and bunching of muscle there as he moved, loved seeing the dragons writhing on his arms. His skin was unbelievable, smooth, silky. She leaned in and ran her tongue over the lines of the tattoo on his biceps. The flesh was raised the slightest bit, but she could feel it, how the design was worked into his skin. She shivered, lust stabbing deep inside her. The ink, the taste of him, the texture on her tongue. She moaned softly.
When she looked up and caught his gaze, his smoky gray eyes were as intense as ever, his lids heavy. He bent and pressed his lips to her throat, his tongue swirling there, sending shivers of heat through her system. She let her head fall back, let him feast there, sucking, biting. Even better when he moved lower and took her nipple into his mouth.
She gasped, the wet heat driving through her, into her. Her sex was soaking wet, aching and full.
Touch me. God, please touch me…
As though hearing her need, he slid his hands over her thighs and in between them, pressing against her mound through the denim of her jeans. So close. Not nearly enough. Unbearable.
“Tristan…”
He pulled back, helped her squirm out of her jeans. Her cotton panties went next, and she was naked in the chair, acutely aware of her wet cleft against the black vinyl.
He went down on his knees then, and she saw the black bat wings tattooed across his shoulders. Gorgeous work, she thought vaguely. She loved the look of it, the dense blackness of ink on his skin. Exactly what she’d craved her whole life. Her whole body surged with lust.
Yes.
Tristan spread her thighs, and dove in. His mouth went right to that wet and hungry place. Using his hands, he spread her pussy lips, used his tongue to delve in between. He found the hard nub of her clit, licked it, the soft texture of his tongue making her crazy. “More, Tristan, more…please…”
She bucked her hips, pushing against his searching tongue.
Oh, yes…
He thrust his fingers inside her, and pleasure shot through her like an electric shock; hard, intense. She was trembling on the edge of orgasm already. She wanted to hold back, tried to. But his hot, sucking mouth, his plunging fingers, were too much for her. Her climax slammed into her, a solid wall of pleasure, crushing her completely. She shook with the force of it, her thighs clenching, the walls of her sex grasping at his driving fingers.
“Oh…”
And before it was over, he stood and kicked off his boots, his jeans. He bent over her and whispered, “Your skin is too raw, Sophie. I have to turn you around.”
“Yes. Do it. Please.”
He grabbed her around the waist, turned her over until she was kneeling on the chair, her elbows resting on the back of it.
“Fuck. Hold on,” he muttered.
He walked away, and she heard him fumbling in a cabinet. She could barely hold still, waiting for him.
“Thank God Henry keeps these on hand.”
She glanced over her shoulder and watched, fascinated, as Tristan rolled a condom over his cock. A beautiful cock, hard and as big as the rest of him was. She licked her lips, trembled in anticipation.
His hand went around her waist again and he pulled her to him, used the other hand to spread her pussy lips. He pressed the head of his cock to her opening and pleasure rippled through her.
“Just do it, Tristan. I need it. Please.”
He slid in. Right into her wet heat. He’d never felt anything so damn good in his life as this girl beneath him. And to see his work on her back, the pale skin still pink and tender, went through him like a shock, a jolt of unbelievable pleasure. And something about the way she yielded her body to him, just gave herself over, was thrilling as hell.
He pulled back, and as he thrust into her, her hips moved back to meet him. She was too perfect, this girl.
Still holding her body close to his, he slipped a hand around, filled his palm with her breast. So firm, so soft. One of her hands came up to cover his, and she guided him to take her nipple between his fingers, to pinch it, hard.
Oh, yes. Fucking perfect.
He slid out, let his cock rest just inside that hot, wet opening, waited while she squirmed beneath him.
“Tristan,” she gasped. “Please.”
“Please what?” Too good, to make her beg for it. Sick bastard. He didn’t care.
“Please fuck me. I need it hard. Please.”
He smiled to himself, then plunged, sinking into her hot, grasping pussy. He pulled back, drove in once more, until his balls were tight up against her. He started to pump then, faster and faster. And he moved his hand down from her swollen nipple to that hard nub between her thighs, rubbing, pinching, loving the feel of her slippery flesh under his fingertips.
“Oh! Yes, Tristan!”
He felt that first tremor deep inside her body. And when her pussy started to clench around his cock, his own climax came thundering down on him, roaring through his system. Pleasure shook him to the core, his body trembling. And still he drove into her, reveled in her cries.
“Christ, Sophie…”
More, and more; he kept driving into her silken flesh, felt her shiver beneath him. Watched her skin go pink from where he’d gripped her hip too hard. Watched her tattooed flesh, knowing he had done that to her. Decorated her. Marked her.
Don’t think about it.
But he couldn’t help it. On some level, in some strange way, Sophie was already his.
You’re not built for that s
hit.
No. He knew damn well he wasn’t. He was going to have to stop. Stop thinking that way about her. Stop seeing her, if he had to.
But right now, he was still buried inside her body, pleasure shifting through him like sunlight through the cloudy New Orleans sky.
Fuck it. He would deal with it all later.
He bent over her, swept the long fall of dark hair from the back of her neck and bit her there, tasting her skin. His cock twitched at her low moan. Almost wanted to get hard once more already. Just the taste of her skin, that small sound of pleasure.
“Tristan.” Her voice was a sultry, breathless whisper.
“What is it, Sophie?”
“I need to do it again.”
He smiled to himself, pulled out of her and turned her around so that she was sitting in the chair. He left her there for a moment while he disposed of the condom.
“I’m sadly unprepared, Sophie. As much as I’d like to pretend otherwise, I need a few minutes to recover.”
He looked at her then, at the flush on her breasts, her cheeks. The heavy-lidded eyes, just a glimmer of color from beneath her long, dark lashes. So fucking beautiful. And that pouting mouth of hers…
He leaned in and kissed her. Her delicate arms went around his neck. She was hot and panting in moments, kissing him hard. He wanted to fuck her again.
Instead, he pulled her to the edge of the chair, spread her thighs wide. Loved that she just let him do it. No questions, no resistance. Just her damp, pink cleft opening like a flower for him.
He reached out and stroked that wet slit with one finger. She tensed, moaned softly. He couldn’t believe how beautiful she was, open, wanton.
Wanton. An old-fashioned word. But that’s exactly what she was. And so unexpected, from a girl like her. Such a sweet face, and that silver cross around her neck, hanging between her breasts.
He stroked her again, using his fingers to delve in between those swollen lips. She arced into his touch. He glanced up, found her eyes tightly closed. She looked…lost. Lost and lovely and all his, in this moment.
His cock stirred, needy already. But he wanted to watch her come. Wanted to see his fingers plunge into her body.