Something New (Exile Ink Book 1)

by Skylar Hill

  Despite their differences, they’d always been incredibly close, and James looked up to him, like any little brother would. Even if he might not admit that to Aiden’s face. He wouldn’t want him to get a big head.

  “Thanks,” James said. “This… I wouldn’t want to be in business with anyone but you.”

  “You’re a good investment, little brother,” Aiden responded, with a smirk that did nothing to hide the pride there.

  “I’ll see you later.”

  Aiden left, and James spent a few more minutes wandering around the building. He made a few notes on his phone, measuring walls just to spur ideas before he got the blueprints and really had to start planning.

  His phone buzzed with a reminder: Four o’clock appointment w/ Cam

  His stomach tightened just seeing her name.

  Cam Ellison had tugged at him even before he laid eyes on her. Her work called to him so deeply, he couldn’t help wonder what kind of artist had this skill, this sensitivity—and then he saw her; a vision of peaches and cream skin, with gold hair, pink lips and curves that his hands ached to touch. She went straight to his head like the smoothest kind of whiskey, and he wanted more.

  He needed more.

  But first, he needed to get to the shop so he could see her again.

  James spent the drive over to the Electric Chair on the phone with his real estate broker, finalizing a deal for the warehouse.

  “I’ll get the papers drawn up and messengered over,” Pete said.

  “Thanks,” James answered, pulling into a parking spot about a block from the shop. “I’ll talk to you later, Pete.”

  The day was stormy, and the slate-gray clouds rolled across the sky, threatening rain at any minute. James pulled his coat tighter around himself as he made his way down the street. When he entered the shop, no one was at the counter, but as he moved farther inside, closing the door behind him, he could see Cam and Scott Reeves standing to the side, near what looked like was the back office.

  “You know I hate this shit,” he was saying to her, tossing a piece of thermal paper at her. Cam grabbed at it, but she was too late. It fluttered to the ground.

  James watched as she stared down at it on the floor, her shoulders slumped. “I know you don’t like them,” she said in a steady voice. “But my clients want what they want.”

  Scott rolled his eyes. “It’s amateur hour,” he sneered. “Bunch of splashes of colors that fade in a few years.”

  James shifted in place, his blood boiling. Who the hell did this guy think he was? Before Scott could say anything—before he could tear her down anymore—God, what an asshole—James pressed down on the bell on the counter.

  Cam’s head whipped toward the front, her eyes widening as they met his. He watched as she turned bright red, clearly wondering how long he’d been standing there—and how much he’d heard.

  “James, hi!” she said, falsely bright. She bent down, scooping up the piece of thermal paper Scott had thrown at her. She tossed it in the trash, biting at her bottom lip as she did so. James was worried enough about her not to let his glance linger on the way her skirt—this one flared out at the knees—curved over her perfect ass.

  “McGowan!” Scott’s voice boomed out, all disrespect and meanness fading from his voice the second he recognized James. “My man! I haven’t seen you in forever.”

  James took Scott’s offered hand. Scott was the kind of guy who squeezed hard when shaking your hand, like it was some sort of pissing contest. James smiled tightly, looking down at him. He threatened guys like this, pricks who thought of themselves as alpha males but who cringed at the idea of actual hard work.

  “I like the place,” he lied. The shop was cheesy and flashy, the exact opposite of his own plan.

  “We do all right,” Scott said smugly. “I heard you were back in town, but I didn’t realize you were getting something done with us today,” he cast a look at Cam, then back at James, his eyebrow cocked. “You’re not having Cam do your work, are you? You know I can take care of you, man. Anything you want. It’d be a privilege.”

  Cam bit her lip, looking away. It told James everything he needed to know.

  He could cause a scene right now. Round on Scott and tell him exactly what he thought of him throwing one of his own artists under the table like that. But it’d get her fired, and if she was willing to put up with this guy’s shit, it meant she needed the job.

  “That’s nice of you,” James said coolly, not even looking at Scott. All his focus was on her. “But I’ve got my heart set on Cam.”

  Her eyes, which had been locked on the floor, flew up to meet his. A shiver went through her at the deep timbre of his voice and the meaning behind his words. He could see the slight tremor in her, he wanted to feel it, soothe her, then rile her up with just a touch.

  “Well,” Scott cleared his throat, obviously displeased. “I’ll let you two get to it, I guess.”

  “I have things set up in one of the private rooms,” Cam said. James watched as she cringed a little as Scott brushed past her, sour anger radiating off him. God, working for that ass must be a nightmare.

  He knew he should see it as a boon. He wanted her to come work at his shop, and leaving such a shitty boss behind would be a relief for any employee. But instead, all he felt was a raging fury at the treatment she must’ve had to endure. He hated guys like Scott, narcissists who thought they were strong because they demeaned people—usually women. The fact that his abuse was heaped on Cam just stoked the fire he felt inside.

  But instead of stalking down the hall and smashing Scott’s head through his office door like he wanted to, James took a deep breath and followed Cam into one of the private rooms.

  She closed the door behind them, hurrying over to the counter, where she had set out her inks and needles.

  They’d emailed back and forth throughout the week, exchanging a series of ideas and sketches that she’d tweaked until he’d settled on one. Now that the moment was here, he could feel adrenaline spiking in his veins. Not just in anticipation of the pain.

  They were alone now.

  He let himself think about it for a second—catching her up in his arms, pressing her against the wall. Her mouth startled and then softening under his as she moaned, letting the feel of him against her sweep her away. And then he forced himself to banish the idea, because it was unethical to put the moves on her in the course of a session. And because sitting so close to her with a hard-on for the three to four hours it’d take to do his chest was something he wanted to avoid.

  She looked over her shoulder at him, flashing a smile. Her lips were that rosy pink again—he wasn’t even sure if she was wearing lipstick or if it was just their natural color.

  He wanted to find out.

  “So, your boss is an asshole,” he said, partly to break the ice and partly to distract himself from the fantasy of unbuttoning each of the tiny red buttons on the chiffon blouse she’d tucked into her skirt. The shirt had little hearts on it, scattered across the plush curves of her breasts like the worst kind of temptation.

  She laughed, startled, and then she clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes going wide.

  It was the cutest fucking thing he’d ever seen.

  Jesus. James shifted in place, wishing he’d worn looser jeans.

  “He shouldn’t talk to you like that,” he continued.

  “Scott does a lot of things he shouldn’t,” she said, the resigned note in her voice making the righteous part of him rear its head. She washed her hands in the sink and dried them, snapping on a pair of gloves. “Don’t worry about it.”

  But I do, James found himself wanting to say. He worried about her. He’d spent the last week looking forward to her emails every day and he’d woken up every morning hard as a rock, her laugh ringing in his ears, the feel of her skin—that brief moment in the diner when her hands were in his—haunting him.

  He’d slept with his share of women, especially in the reality-show years. H
e’d charmed them, even doggedly pursued a few who loved the chase. But he was careful to never make promises. Never make plans.

  But one look at Cam Ellison, one face-to-face conversation, one week of emails about art and technique and debating their favorite food trucks, and he was making all sort of plans.

  “Okay,” she said, turning toward him, a razor in one hand, a can of shaving cream in the other. “Time to prep. I just…” Her tongue darted out, pressing against her lower lip for a second, betraying her nervousness, “… need you to take off your shirt.”

  James reached for the buttons of the blue checked flannel he’d thrown on before meeting Aiden this morning. He couldn’t help but notice the way her eyes followed the movement of his hands. She let out a little huff of breath as he stripped off the shirt, and then seemed to catch herself, her gaze dragging back up to meet his smiling eyes.

  He couldn’t help himself, it was either tease her or take her, right there and then. He had to do something to relieve the tension, and fucking her just feet away from her boss’s office wasn’t the best idea, even though his body disagreed.

  Teasing it was.

  “See something you like?” he drawled.

  Chapter Five

  Cam

  “See something you like?”

  There’s a rumble in his voice, the promise of something Cam didn’t even know how to want, that lit her nerves up like a sparkler. She could feel every inch of her skin, her nipples hardened against her bra, the texture of the lace doing nothing to alleviate the sensation.

  Hell yes, she saw something she liked. She saw everything she liked. Lydia wasn’t joking when she referred to him as a lumberjack. James was one hundred percent pure, Grade-A Mountain Man. He had the kind of muscle that doesn’t come from a gym—but from chopping firewood and hauling trees through the snow. Her glance couldn’t help but linger on his chest hair as he tossed his shirt on the bench behind him, the dark smattering that narrowed into a trail, its end hidden by the low-slung jeans that did nothing to hide his beautifully cut hipbones.

  She wanted to melt right there. But she couldn’t. She wasn’t some tattoo groupie and this was her chance. To add a piece for James McGowan to her portfolio was priceless, and just as valuable was the feeling—unusual for her—of pride and confidence because he’d chosen her; he recognized her ability.

  So she quirked an eyebrow and said, “As a matter of fact, yes. The blue jay tattoo.” She pointed to his right chest and shoulder, which were mostly taken up by a large crow, the brilliant blue black of the brush ink work achingly beautiful.

  He looked down at it, then back at her, his head tilting as a slow smile crept across his face. “How’d you know it was a blue jay?” he asked as he settled on the reclined chair she’d draped for their session.

  She frowned. “Isn’t it?”

  “Most people think it’s a raven,” he said as she spread shaving cream across his chest where she would be placing the trees. She pressed the razor against his skin, expecting him to tense a little, like most clients did, but he sat motionless, and just kept looking at her with those storm-cloud eyes. Electricity darted up her arms, and she had to stop herself from squirming as her skin heated up.

  “You don’t seem like a raven sort of guy,” she said, as she finished shaving the rest of his chest over his heart, where the tattoo would go.

  “No?” he asked.

  She wondered if she was being presumptuous. Tattoos could be incredibly private—hers were, after all. But he made her curious, and that led to boldness. “Well, ravens are associated with death and gloom. They’re dark portents. But blue jays are more playful. They’re tricksters.”

  “Is that what I am?” he asked. “A trickster?”

  She wiped away the remaining shaving cream on his chest, a part of her marveling that just a thin piece of latex was separating their skin from touching. “Maybe I’ll find out,” she said, feeling bold and reaching for the piece of thermal paper that contained the design she’d worked up. She applied it to his skin, letting him check it for positioning after the design had transferred to his skin.

  “Perfect,” he said, as she held out the mirror.

  She wasn’t ashamed to acknowledge how much she liked his warm praise of her work. After being put down by Scott for so long, to hear genuine compliments from someone she admired so much was like a balm to a wound that had festered for years.

  “Let’s get started, then,” she said with a smile. She perched on her stool, reaching for the tattoo gun. “Ready?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  She dipped the needle in the ink, starting with the gentle sloping lines, wiping away excess ink as she went.

  “Do you like to talk?” she asked as the lines began to form the redwoods’ trunks. “Or do you prefer silence?”

  Normally, she wouldn’t ask. She’d feel it out, but she figured, artist to artist, she could be frank.

  “Talk,” he said. “Ask me something.”

  “Hmm,” she said, drawing the line of the main tree up his chest toward his collarbone where the skin was thinner, closer to the bone. He didn’t tense, but his breath came a little faster. “Do you have siblings?”

  “A big brother,” he said. “My turn.”

  “Oh, am I answering questions, too?” she asked, shooting him a look. “I don’t think I agreed to that.”

  “Indulge me,” he said, his eyes sparkling.

  “Fine,” she said, trying not to show how much she liked his teasing. Keep it together, Cam, she ordered herself as she added red and brown to fill in the tree trunks. “Ask.”

  Three hours and dozens of questions later, Cam knew that James’s favorite color was green, he hated pineapple, loved Thai food, and used to hold chili pepper–eating contests with his brother as a child.

  He was easy to talk to, and the intimacy of the moment, the distraction that tattooing him provided, lulled Cam into a sense of security she hadn’t felt in a long time, despite her intense concentration on the process. As the hours ticked by, the questions moved past the surface into deeper realms. She told him about her and Evie’s childhood cat, a cranky creature determined to live in defiance of its name: Sunshine. About the you-pick pear orchard their mother took them to when she and her sister were small. About how her mother had bought her that first set of watercolors when she was six and how she’d never looked back, because it’d been like finding a part of herself that had been missing.

  Finally, Cam wiped away the last of the ink, staring down James’s chest, where four redwood trees now stood tall, grouped over his heart like guardians. The rich red-brown trunks were speckled with green, hinting at moss, while long sweeps of greens and blacks formed branches and spiky needles, reaching out toward his sternum and collarbone. One tree was larger than the others, like the one in the photo, and she knew without having to ask that it represented his father.

  Cam felt a flutter of nerves in her stomach as she stripped off her gloves and reached for the mirror, flipping it over so he could see. Would he like it?

  God, please let him like it. Because she loved it.

  It was her best piece yet. She wanted to press her hand against his chest, to feel the slight raised edge of the ink—her ink—on his skin. She had to stop herself, breathe through the desire.

  For a long moment, he just stared at the tree’s reflection in the mirror, his eyes bright with an emotion she couldn’t quite identify. His hand came up to touch the trees, his fingers tracing over the tallest one as a wistful sort of smile played across his lips. His eyes shifted from the mirror to her and it was like a low-grade electric shock went through her entire body when their eyes met.

  “It’s perfect,” he said.

  She set the mirror down, trying to stop the heat she felt from climbing up her cheeks.

  “Cam,” he said quietly, leaning forward.

  He was so close. Just inches away. If he leaned…

  “I have one last question,” he said.


  His hand was in her hair, cupping the back of her head. She let him bring her toward him, her stool rolling forward until their thighs brushed. Their foreheads pressed together. All she could do was breathe him in, a fresh, masculine scent that was like a forest after the snow. She could feel herself shaking; fine little tremors that she knew he must feel too, because his other hand came to cup her shoulder, dragging down the length of her arm, spreading heat wherever he touched.

  “Are we on the same page here?” he asked huskily.

  Cam almost whimpered. She barely managed to nod before his hands were back in her hair, his mouth pressed against hers. He kissed her like it was the one thing he’d ever wanted in life and now that he’d gotten it…

  She swirled into the sensation, into his need for her and the need building inside her. It spiked with each slow, drugging kiss, roaring hot and hungry inside her. His hands wrapped around her hips, hauling her off the stool and onto his lap in one, swift movement. She let out a gasp of surprise as she felt the hard line of his cock pressed against the curve of her ass. He smiled against her mouth as his fingers skated along the waistband of her skirt, not dipping inside—not yet, anyway. It was maddening. All she could think of was when and more and please, please, touch me.

  “So fucking gorgeous,” he murmured against her cheek, his lips teasing a moan out of her as they brushed against the delicate shell of her ear. Her hands fisted in his hair, wanting more, wanting everything, wanting it now.

  “Worried it was all in my head,” he said, his lips grazing against the sensitive dip of her neck, making her twist against him, gasping. One of his hands stretched across the small of her back, keeping her tight against him, and for some reason, it made her even hotter, her skin prickling at the pressure. “Spent the whole session with a hard-on. God, Cam,” he pressed a searing kiss against her lips and then pulled back to stare into her face. He pushed back her hair, tucking it behind her ear, his fingers trailing to the very ends.