Inked
Anne Marsh
Bankers and bad boys don’t mixSo why is she getting under his skin?Harper, a buttoned-up banker, is a tattoo virgin before Vik draws her first ink. And once the bad-boy biker lays his hands on the beautiful canvas of her body he’s addicted! Harper says the two of them could never mix outside of the bedroom—but she’s finding Vik’s touch is a feeling she wants to last for ever.
Bankers and bad boys don’t mix
So why is she getting under his skin?
Harper, a buttoned-up banker, is a tattoo virgin before Vik draws her first ink. And once the bad-boy biker lays his hands on the beautiful canvas of her body, he’s addicted! Harper says the two of them could never mix outside of the bedroom—but she’s finding that she wants the feeling of Vik’s touch to last forever.
“DARE is Harlequin’s hottest line yet. Every book should come with a free fan. I dare you to try them!”
—Tiffany Reisz, international bestselling author
ANNE MARSH writes sexy contemporary and paranormal romances—because the world can always enjoy one more alpha male. She started writing romance after getting laid off from her job as a technical writer—and quickly decided happily-ever-afters trumped software manuals. She lives in Northern California with her family and six cats.
If you liked Inked, why not try
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Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Inked
Anne Marsh
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07119-2
INKED
© 2018 Anne Marsh
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Jimmy the Cake Guy.
Clearly, the best guys bake, make cupcake deliveries, and look out for the women in their dorms and their lives.
Thank you!
Contents
Cover (#ub459a175-72c7-512e-8e25-67e77f096632)
Back Cover Text (#u3adbc3bf-fce6-57d8-ad52-7fd7cdaa40ef)
About the Author (#ubed3bd3d-d363-528c-b114-22f52dbecd7e)
Booklist (#u117b9b1f-5af4-5ad9-bd29-a3dc03f109b1)
Title Page (#u0e2e4018-8495-5feb-b37e-3de67afd90ff)
Copyright (#uaeda7822-162e-5ef5-ac88-fda619dda47e)
Dedication (#u341ac362-46cf-5f82-8017-65598b68e30d)
CHAPTER ONE (#u5af37659-23f0-5646-bd2b-a11e959d3273)
CHAPTER TWO (#ud089adbf-7df5-5c0d-ad11-8153bd2116b8)
CHAPTER THREE (#uf6d914f8-885d-53e3-be60-b23a8334c496)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u09d9600b-26eb-59ee-839f-fa19c8a1ce48)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u5e5068a6-c788-557e-aace-4049cf8b8e79)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#u115d2751-7af2-5889-bd97-c1244875cbf1)
Vik
BEFORE I TOUCH even so much as an inch of sweet, creamy skin I know I want to spank her, mark her. Make her mine. Take her heart-shaped ass and all the softness she’s hiding from me. Doesn’t hurt that she’s wearing plain white cotton panties, the kind designed to cover up rather than to showcase but that instead makes a man like me think about turning good girls bad. She’s tucked the waistband down to give me more room to work. Thoughtful as fuck, right? I can’t stop looking at the tattoo chair where she’s spread out, waiting for me to ink her. I’ll be her first because nothing but virgin skin meets my greedy eye.
And here I’d thought tonight would be boring.
Located on a busy if seedy street in East Las Vegas, the tattoo parlor I run when I’m not taking care of Hard Rider business specializes in flash tattoos for the impulsive crowd. Ink Me fronts the sidewalk and passersby can look through our windows and watch whatever ink’s in progress. Maybe my new client doesn’t care if she gives lookie-loos a show. Maybe she loves the thrill. I won’t judge. Christ knows, my list of guilty pleasures reads like an encyclopedia of vice. Won’t make excuses or apologize, either. I know what I like and I make sure I get it. I’m a hedonist, not a fucking saint, and inking this pretty bitch is the much-needed cherry on today’s shit sundae.
People like company when they dive into the deep end of the pool of sin and debauchery and virgin ass’s blonde companion looks like an expert. The teeny black cocktail dress, mile-high heels and red leather choker scream fun. The hair flat-ironed into an immaculate curtain adds a note of sophistication that in no way matches the grit of East Las Vegas. Someone who pays attention to the wrapping paper will take even more care with the contents. Bet she waxes or goes full Brazilian with one of those clit piercings I love to roll around my tongue. Usually, Blondie would be my favorite kind of present and I’d be halfway to unwrapping her using that goddamned choker as a leash, but tonight the gorgeous ass in my chair trumps all.
“Ladies. What can I do for you?” I nod at the blonde, a wave of strawberry and tequila hitting me hard. Hope to fuck the woman in my chair is more sober. Not good to ink anyone with more alcohol than blood in her veins.
“Harper wants a tattoo,” Blondie announces.
What kind of name is Harper? It sounds uptight and tidy, way too organized for the lush pair of thighs hugging my chair even if it fits the clothes. The white cotton blouse folded up her back matches the no-nonsense panties...and is that a business skirt unbuttoned and unzipped to give me access? When you’ve banged as many women as I have, you learn a thing or two about clothes, and Dolce & Gabbana is expensive shit. Ups the odds of her not being underage, though. As long as she’s not a lawyer or a judge in the daylight hours, we’re good.
Or bad. Lady’s choice.
The shirt, panties and skirt might come from the Good Girl closet, but her shoes are pure sex. The black suede laces up the front, showcasing the cutest toes. I see her feet all tied up with a fucking bow and I start thinking about getting some rope on the rest of her body and showing her just how good a little kink can feel.
You got to admire a woman who can dress for success from the ankles up and then make a guy come on the spot when she flashes her feet at him. From the length of her legs, she’s tall—and the heels give her another four inches. I’m a big bastard, but she’ll come up past my shoulder no problem. Not too skinny, either, thank fuck. She’s generous in all the right places, not some fragile flower that can’t take a hard pounding.
“Start on her ass and work your way up,” Blondie orders.
Gladly.
Been doing that my whole life. Grew up rough, just me and my old man. He rode for a local club, giving me a dozen honorary uncles who had my back and kicked the shit out of me whenever I needed it. First beer at twelve, first woman at fifteen and first bike at sixteen. Since I’d been a stupid shit, I’d barely made it out of high school, too busy enjoying the open road and free pussy to think long-term. A few years in the US Navy fixed that. Wasn’t cut out to be a career soldier but I picked up some things from Uncle Sam’s crew—discipline, training, a love of ink and the ability to cut loose when onshore. The life of the fiesta, that’s me. I’d boozed and cruised my way around a dozen different ports of call and I’d left my mark on them all.
Party never ended.
My old man didn’t like my constant fiesta, but his right to give me shit ended the day I turned eighteen and signed my life over at the local recruiting station. When I’d come home at twenty-one, we’d shared a beer and awkward small talk. Wasn’t that my old man looked smaller and older, just...less big. Not sure where my genes came from but my club brothers call me the Viking for more than one reason. Not only do I fight like a berserker, but I look like one, too. My pretty face is just the party favor on a package of lethal. Ladies, you’ve been warned.
The beauty in my chair shifts impatiently. “Are we starting?”
I jerk my eyes up to Beauty’s head. Gotta stop staring at her ass. She has dark hair, a glossy brown so dark it’s almost black as it spills from the crown of her head in a long, sleek ponytail. Christ, it’s like she looked inside my head and picked out all my favorite fantasies. If we were alone, I’d be fisting that soft length as I pounded into her from behind.
I need my sex dirty and rough. Nice has never been part of my vocabulary.
“You better tell me what you want. Not sure the front desk got the memo.” Gia’s a sweetheart but she’s not the most organized person. Probably should get around to firing her but that would require finding a new receptionist. Plus, she’s got a great smile and never gives me shit. Wouldn’t be easy for her to find another job, either, since she’s got a two-year-old and never-ending day care issues.
“A tattoo.” She drums the pretty nails that match her toes, foot tapping like she’s Queen of Sheba. I’d like to say that imperiousness makes her not my type, but who am I kidding? I fuck anyone who smiles my way. I don’t like alone time, commitments or longevity.
“Put my ink right here.” She reaches around, pointing to the top of her ass.
I grab my sketchpad from my rolling table. “You got a design in mind? Special occasion to commemorate?”
I ask more to keep her talking. Women like her—ironed, pressed and slumming in East Las Vegas—usually request rainbows or flowers. They demand teeny, tiny piece-of-crap tattoos rather than living large. Sometimes, they ask for the name of a lover or a boyfriend. Dead people and dead relationships are also popular—because if you’re not celebrating the hell out of the living, you’re mourning their loss. Not that I have a problem tattooing Property Of on a woman’s ass. Fuck no. The problem comes when she busts back in a week or a month later, demanding I cover the words up with “something pretty.” There’s nothing pretty about sex when it’s mistaken for love, and love is as likely as a unicorn and a dodo bird getting it on.
“The douche,” Blondie slurs.
Awesome. Tonight we’re celebrating a death and the douchebag who’s blown his chance fatally.
I drop onto my rolling chair, scooting closer. While Blondie smells as if she’s rolled around in a gigantic strawberry margarita, my face almost brushes my girl’s shoulder before I catch a hint of scent from her. Something subtle and discreet, the kind of thing the club girls try on at Macy’s because no way can they afford it for real. Beauty’s skin smells like vanilla and coconut, a warm, sweet invitation to eat her for dessert.
Sitting behind her on my stool, I glimpse her face in the storefront window. I deliberately brush my shoulder against hers as I offer her my hand. “Vik. Pleased to meet you, Harper.”
My hands are large, battered and scarred, the knuckles inked with Cyrillic symbols until there’s not an inch of bare skin. I was born here, but my old man came over from Russia when he was twenty. He pulled plenty of shit before and after he patched into his club, and he made a few introductions on my behalf after my Navy stint. Those connections left a mark.
“So you wanna give me more words about what you want?”
“Not flowers and hearts,” she says decisively. “Fuck that shit. Today’s been a bad day.”
“Tell Doctor Vik all about it,” I purr.
“I came home from work,” she says. “Seems like no big deal, right? Kick off my heels, heat something up, fall into the tub and then bed.”
The barest hint of a liquid slur to her words warns me she’s not quite sober. I nod, filling in the blanks. Another woman in her bed, a we-need-to-talk moment, a fight. A, B, C, or D—all of the above. Beauty doesn’t seem like a screamer, but she also doesn’t seem like the kind of woman who gets ink. I grab the Sharpie from my back pocket and uncap it.
“He’d kicked me out.”
He being the dead-to-her douchebag.
“Fucker,” I say agreeably, tucking her ponytail over her shoulder.
“Absolutely,” she agrees. “He had a service pack up my stuff and leave it in the garage for me. I didn’t even get to pick and choose which parts of our life I kept. He pointed and strangers put my pieces in boxes. He kept my cat.”
“I could go over there and kick his ass. Pull a little repo action for you.”
A smile ghosts over her mouth. “You have no idea how tempting that is.”
“Offer stands.” When I smooth my hand over her skin, she jumps. “Touching you is part of my job, babe. Your job is to tell me what you want.”
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.”
“MC?” She turns her head so she can watch my face.
“Motorcycle club.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“Depends on who you’re asking, babe. Also on what kind of business we’ve got. Most days we’re practically Boy Scouts. Even do a toy drive at Christmastime.”
“And the other days?”
“We take care of business.”
I give in to temptation and run my thumb down the straight line of her spine. Woman’s got more knots in her back than that macramé shit my brother Cord learned in prison. Supposed to be therapeutic and relaxing as fuck as Cord can attest. He tied up a few strippers and taught them the finer points of bondage when he got out.
“You need to move on.” Blondie’s words come out soft and slurred. I don’t disagree with her, and if Harper wants to forget the douche, I’m the man to help her.
Harper winces as my needle finds a particularly sensitive spot. “How many minutes until we’re done?”
“Sweetheart,” I say, brushing my mouth over her ear, “we’re barely started.”
I know firsthand what the needle feels like when it bites through skin, how the pain doesn’t ever quite ease up. Shit hurts. Life hurts. But this pain is a choice and it leads to a thing of fucking beauty at the end if I do it right. My firebird slowly takes flight on Harper’s back, first the wings, and then the head. I lose myself in between the lines, drawing and coloring, pulling something from her and putting it on the outside for everyone to see.
Harper’s quiet for long enough that I lean over to make sure she hasn’t passed out on me. Not that she’s a constant talker, but some sign of life would be good. Her eyes are closed, her lips parted when I need her to be here with me.
“Hey. You okay?” I drag the back of my knuckles over her cheek, cursing the latex between my skin and hers.
Her lashes lift slowly. She’s got the prettiest, softest eyes. “It hurts.”
“Good hurt or bad hurt?”
Her forehead gets this cute little pucker like my question doesn’t compute. “Good hurt?”
“Yeah. The kind where the burn eats you up and you get lost in all that feeling and you just have to let go and ride it out. You feel me?”
The crease in her forehead deepens, so I’ll have to show her. I lay down a new line of ink. She’s a squirmer. She wriggles against my bench, working her pussy into the leather like it’ll open up and give her a way out of here.
“You chose this,” I point out. “You put your cute little ass in my chair. You can endure the pain, or you can let go and lose yourself in it. I think you might like it.”
I drag my thumb down the outside of her spine, working against one of those knots. Investment banking doesn’t sound like a fucking picnic, and her body seems to agree with me. She lifts into my touch, the muscle beneath my fingertip loosening. Then she wiggles against the seat again.
“If this makes you feel better, it’s a good thing,” I say roughly. The ink I’m tracing into her skin certainly is—the bright red feathers almost fly off her skin, they look so fucking real. “You deserve good things, you hear me?”
“Yeah,” she says, so softly that I almost don’t hear her. “I do.”
Blondie’s head hits the window with an audible thunk. I can’t tell if she’s passed out or fallen asleep, but girlfriend looks painfully uncomfortable.
“Give me a moment.” I set my equipment down and strip off my gloves. “Sleeping Beauty needs an assist.”
“Sleeping Beauty?” Harper twists her head and takes in her friend sprawled half on, half off the window seat. Not my circus, not my fucking monkeys, but she’s here with Harper.
I brush my hands down my thighs. “You need a chaperone?”
Harper outright laughs. “Are you planning on hiding Brooklyn’s body?”
“Nah.” I shake my head and cross the room to Blondie. Harper watches like she can’t quite figure me out as I scoop her friend up in my arms. “I’m offering relocation services. Think she’d be more comfortable on the couch.”
I take her out front and set her down on the leather couch. Gia never looks up from whatever game she’s playing on her phone. The room’s chilly from the air-conditioning that ran for most of the day so I shrug out of my leather jacket and drop it over Harper’s friend. The nipples poking the front of her sequined tank top advertise loud and proud that the woman’s cold. It may be August in Vegas but it’s also two in the morning. The sun’s not up, and I don’t need her to fucking freeze to death—or wake up—before I’m done with Harper.
When I go back into my studio, Harper gives me a smile. The sight of her bent over my bench, waiting for me to put my hands back on her, makes me hard, but then everything about this woman gets me going.
“You’re a nice guy.” She sounds surprised. Not sure why everyone seems to think bikers do nothing but kill shit. We’ve got other hobbies and mayhem’s just one of my many talents.
“Everybody loves me.” I wink at her reflection in Ink Me’s windows. “So what does an investment banker do all day, Harper darling?”
“I make other people money.”
“Are you good at what you do?” Harper doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who’d settle for half-assing anything in life.
“I’m the best.” A small, self-satisfied smile licks up the corners of her mouth. I’ll bet she goddamned is the best. I know better but I press my fingers a little harder against her skin, spreading them so I can feel the little shivers as the needle bites into her skin and then the moment when she relaxes. She’d feel like that when I was deep inside her, too, making her come.
“Me, too.” Either you rock your shit, or you don’t, and I’m the best goddamned tattoo artist in Vegas. I already know that tonight’s ink is my best ever. My firebird looks ready to streak into the sky—or curl up and dig in because it’s hard to imagine a sweeter spot than the curve of Harper’s back.
“This is the hard part,” I warn.
Sure enough, when I start shading the feathers, she tries to hold it all in but a groan escapes her mouth.
“You don’t have to pretend for me,” I tell her. Mean it, too. “You do whatever you fucking feel like doing.”
She nods—and then she reaches down, feeling for me with her hand. The fuck? My dick may be hoping for a hand job, but instead her fingers find my thigh and pinch. Fucking hard, too. She can’t get a good purchase on me thanks to my jeans and my being built like a medieval Viking, all hard and no soft.
Christ, she’s amazing.
Still, she needs to understand that she doesn’t get to be the one in charge here. “Do that again and I’ll spank your ass.”
Not the smartest thing I could say, seeing as how it doesn’t just cross the line of what’s appropriate and what’s not. More like my words blow the goddamned line up and bury it in a mountain of TNT.
“You said I could do whatever I wanted.” Did she just blush? Been a long time since I’ve been with a woman who got embarrassed.
“Sure thing.” I draw her hand up by her head and pin it there lightly. “But if you make me jump, sweetheart, you’re gonna end up with a mutant firebird. This next part hurts the worst.”
“How long?” I can hear the tears in her voice. Fucking sucks. Harper’s made for smiles, not crying.
“Not long. Be good and I’ll kiss it better.”
“Be specific.”
I’ve got a lot of bare skin to fill in. This won’t be quick or easy. “Forty minutes.”
“Are you shitting me?” She shifts and I back off.
“Kisses,” I remind her. “I’ll make everything feel better if you hang in here.”
“You’ve got magic kisses?” That’s her drunk talking, laughter blurring the edges of her words and pushing away the tears.
“You can find out.”
“I already know how you kiss,” she announces, that cute pink blush getting deeper. “We’ve met before.”
Shit. I rack my brain trying to remember her. Women come and go in my life. Pretty sure I wouldn’t have fucked Harper and forgotten her, though, so maybe she’s just messing with me. Fair enough, seeing as how I’m planning on getting her out of those cute little panties just as soon as I can.
“That so? We’ve shared adult naptime? Done the bedroom rodeo?” I start in on the skin over her spine.
“It doesn’t matter.” She shrugs like whatever memories she’s got are NBFD—no big fucking deal—and I tap her ass.
“Freeze,” I remind her. “Or you’ll make me color outside the lines. And while you’re holding that thought, give me details about what we did together.”
“Nope.” Now I get the smile I wanted earlier, a big, wicked grin that lights up her entire face.
“A hint,” I suggest.
“We met in high school,” she concedes.
Huh. I do some more thinking while I work on her ink. High school wasn’t my finest moment. I was too busy being angry at the world to stop and think. Used my fists, my mouth, my dick—whatever got the biggest rise out of my audience. Guess Harper here must have been on the receiving end of my dick.
“Tell me all about it.”
“Not a chance.” I see her roll her eyes in the window. I forgo smacking her ass, seeing as how we’re in a public venue and all. I don’t need the shit Prez would give me if the club’s lawyers had to get me out of an assault charge. Instead, I try my words again. I can work miracles with my tongue, but that’s in the eating-her-out department. Once I start working her clit over, she’ll tell me what I want to know.
Not that she seems to remember things that way.
“You don’t want to piss off the guy holding the needle, sweetheart.”
She narrows her eyes. “I’m paying you. You have to do what I say.”
Christ, she makes me laugh. “Do I look like I follow the rules? Remind me.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“But you like me.”
“And you don’t remember me,” she counters. “At all.”
“I was your best, right? So fucking awesome that the Douche couldn’t hope to compare?” I squeeze her shoulder with my free hand. I can feel her bra strap beneath the silky fabric, so I nudge it downward an inch just to piss her off. “No. Don’t tell me. I’ll guess.”
CHAPTER THREE (#u115d2751-7af2-5889-bd97-c1244875cbf1)
Harper
“MOVE YOUR HAND and I won’t have to sue you.”
The words fly out of my mouth automatically, the way you blurt out excuse me when you stand on a stranger’s foot in the train or accidentally slam your boob into someone. They’re just words, things that should be said. I have no clue what I’d do if he actually acted on them.
Okay.
I might know.
I suspect—but can’t confirm—I’d beg him to keep on touching me because he’s right about one thing. The pain has melted into something else, a throbbing, hot sensation that makes me squirm against the leather seat and imagine dirty, depraved acts. It’s wrong. It’s completely unprofessional and I’m entirely certain I could be thrown out of Ink Me with a half-finished tattoo on my back for propositioning the talent and getting the seat all wet.
“You’re really not gonna tell me?” Swear to God, the man is pouting—and he’s got the face for it. He could model for an underwear company. His billboard would stop traffic, he’s so damned pretty. I had no idea I was this shallow but his cheekbones and that mouth... I’d happily look at every inch of him, in or out of his briefs.
I really need to have sex again.
“We did it in the gym,” he suggests, big hands moving over my skin. I know he’s just doing his job, but I’m having the most inappropriate feelings for him. Fortunately he has no filter himself.
“Earth to Harper.” He taps my back to get my attention. “Did you check out like this when we made love? Because you might have scarred me.”
Ordinarily, his inability to recall me—naked no less—would be humiliating, but my recent breakup with Mark has set the bar high.
“Definitely the gym,” Vik murmurs. He’s changed since that night in high school—filled out and gotten even bigger. The football coach was always after him to play, although he never would.
“You think?” The constant pleasure-burn of the needle loosens something inside me and not just my tongue. I can’t hold on to any kind of anger right now. It leaches out of me.
“Yeah.” I see Vik nod in the window. His hair slides around his face, longer and sun-bleached, a thick, shaggy mane better suited to a tiger or some kind of wild animal. “Bet we got nasty on the mats beneath the bleachers. Bet you were worried someone might walk in on us.”
“Not the gym.” The needle bites into my skin again, but the burn isn’t so bad now. It’s a deep, insistent rhythm of its own, this sharp scratching as he remakes me.
He’s silent for a moment, but he’s not done. “Empty classroom, then. Fucking loved those big teacher desks they had.”
“You didn’t.” God, I hope no one did the whole apple-for-the-teacher thing after he’d done the nasty. Talk about unsanitary.
“I can’t believe I don’t remember you.” I have to give him credit. He sounds like he means it.
I point out the obvious, however. “Maybe you have a volume problem.”
He winks at me in the glass. “Practice makes perfect.”
I roll my eyes. “There’s a time and a place for overachieving. Do you even know how many girls you’ve slept with?”
“Do you know?” he counters.
“Zero,” I say promptly. “Absolutely no girls.”
“Tell me it’s not so.” He sighs. “All guys know that you college girls go wild and crazy in your dorms as soon as it’s lights-out. Tell me you lived at home and I’ll forgive you.”
“On campus. All four years. Pick a new fantasy.”
“Do you promise to help me reenact it?”
“When hell freezes over,” I say companionably. This is crazy. Despite our brief but memorable (on my part, anyhow) past, I don’t really know Vik. He’s changed, I’ve changed and his idea of conversation would get me fired at my own job. On the other hand, I wanted to start over. New Me is getting her very first tattoo because Old Me wouldn’t have so much as glanced at a tattoo parlor. So perhaps New Me can also trade witty sex jokes with the crazy-hot tattoo artist. New Me wouldn’t give it up in the back seat of a Dodge Charger and then head home panty-less. If nothing else, New Me will be a thong girl all the way.
I think about this to pass the time, but there’s only so long I can meditate on my past underwear choices. The more Vik works, the harder it gets to stay still. No one warned me that getting a tattoo sounds way too much like we’re having sex. The sound of his hands brushing over my skin is followed by the rush of my breath as I exhale a little harder. Bite back a moan when he finds a particularly sensitive spot with his needle. I’m not quite to the point of screaming oh, oh, oh...but I’m getting there.
“Can I ask a question?” he says eventually.
Thank God. At this point I’d take a recitation of the dictionary from front to back over the interesting sensations building up where he’s touching me. Especially since those sensations don’t seem to stay put—they insist on migrating lower.
Because he’s inking my lower back, his hands brush the top of my butt. It’s unavoidable. It doesn’t mean anything, but certain parts of me take notice. Plus, there’s the delicious, wicked burn of the needle. At first the needle hurts, but as I relax into the sting, the feeling changes.
Because even if it hurts, it also feels good.
I want him to do it again and again, so that I can figure out why I like this. He lays another line of ink against my skin, and this time I push up toward him rather than away. The burn becomes something else, a heated sensation that’s mine, that I own, that I crave.
I’ve never been into kink. I’m as vanilla and boring as they come and I don’t mind that. I like who I am. I may be vanilla cake with cream cheese frosting surrounded by more exotic, colorful flavors, but I go with everything. As long as you’re in the mood for cake, I never disappoint.
And yet my panties are wet and the sensations get stronger and better until I’m fighting not to clench or rub myself against the bench.
“Your boyfriend broke up with you, right?”
“Yeah.” I’d really rather not think about that right now.
“So how come you’re the one who’s out on the street, looking for a new place to live?”
You know what? I don’t have a good answer for that. I take a stab at it anyhow.
“Because his name was on our lease?”
Vik makes a dismissive noise. “If he’s the one who wants change, he changes. You stay and he goes.”
It’s dark outside, and the few people walking past the window are either staggeringly drunk or so wrapped up in each other that they don’t look inside Ink Me’s windows. It’s liberating knowing that everyone and no one is watching, that Vik and I are alone in this pool of light inside a bigger sea of darkness. I suddenly understand why all those detectives in TV shows shine a spotlight on their targets, willing them to speak.
The words spill out of me with each question that Vik asks. He can’t care about my answers, not really. He’s working, filling the minutes and the silence the same way he colors in the blank spots on my skin, and yet it feels both surreal and good at the same time. It has nothing to do with my noticing how powerful his thighs are in those wash-worn, threadbare jeans of his, or how his motorcycle boots make me think really, really dirty thoughts.
“There was no magic putty for my relationship with Mark. The problem is I get distracted by a pretty face and Mark had that in spades.”
“I’ll be your booty call,” he says as he presses a bandage over my lower back.
“Excuse me?”
I sound like I have a stick up my butt. Prissy. Uptight.
And he repeats the utterly ridiculous, totally crazy thing he just said.
“If you need a pretty face for sex, you can call me.”
CHAPTER FOUR (#u115d2751-7af2-5889-bd97-c1244875cbf1)
Harper
VIK SHOVES A tattooed hand in my face. “Up,” he says.
His voice is phenomenal. Low and rough, full of heat and humor, the man could make a fortune as a sex line worker. He could read bedtime stories, dirty limericks, the stock report...anything, and I’d be jilling off on the other end of the line because he’s that goddamned sexy.
Danger, danger.
Getting up is exponentially harder than lying down. Not only am I more sober, but I’m stiff. There’s also the whole business of my skirt and my blouse, and even though what goes up must come down, my skirt is a challenge. The fabric clings to my legs, and the strong possibility of flashing my high school lover-turned-biker my cotton-covered butt makes me self-conscious. Frankly, I’d feel better about putting myself on display if I wasn’t wearing sensible white cotton.
Vik solves my logistical issues for me. Large hands close around my waist and yank me upward. I try not to giggle, but a squeak escapes me anyhow. I’m painfully ticklish, and his fingers dig gently into every spot I wish he’d avoid. At least he’s quick. I don’t even have time to worry about the doughnuts I’ve been stress-eating because he flies me through the air and sets me gently on my feet. I’m not a small woman; I started growing up when I was ten and then out two years later. And while I haven’t achieved Jolly Green Giant proportions, I’m not precisely sylph-like, either. I’m tall, I’m sturdy and I’m wearing four-inch heels.
“Warning would be good.” I dig my nails into his forearms trying to find my balance. The skin beneath the dark scrolls of ink is sun-bronzed. It’s also totally lickable, but I need to not think about that.
“Vik Air at your service,” he deadpans. “Although you either have to let go or come home with me.”
We both look down at the death grasp I have on his arms.
Right.
I let go.
Vik strips off his gloves and tosses them into the trash. I guess we’re done here. He might be hot and talented, but this isn’t personal. Sure, I’ve felt this man’s hands on my body, his breath on my skin for three hours, but it’s a business deal. His ink in exchange for my money. Anything else was absolutely not on the price list the girl at the front desk gave me.
But I want more.
God help me, but I do. I don’t want tonight to end. Right now, it feels like I’ve lost everything. In the morning, I’ll end my pity party, but right now, I don’t remember what’s right with my life. I just remember the crap. I don’t have my place anymore. My stuff’s packed up in a storage pod. My ex hijacked our Siamese. All I have is work on Monday and...this night. The tattoo, this man’s hands on me waking me up in places I didn’t know I was asleep. Would you want it to end? If I’d been Cinderella, I’d have stuck around on the top of those stairs.
He steers me away from his bench, his hand low and firm just beneath the spot that burns and aches from his needles. And okay, just above another, slightly more southern spot that also aches and burns because clearly I’m all kinds of messed up.
“Harper?” His mouth brushes the hair by my ear.
“Yeah?” My stupid feet stop moving toward the front desk, where an astronomical bill waits for tonight’s piece of folly. Ink and this man do not come cheap.
“I’m sorry I don’t remember you and I mean it. I’d be happy to be your booty call,” he whispers roughly. “All you have to do is ask, sweetheart.”
I just...can’t.
Vik disappears while I settle up with his receptionist for my new ink. I shouldn’t be disappointed. Obviously, the flirty come-on lines are just part of the service—kind of like a hairdresser chatting you up while you’re in her chair and pretending she’s super-interested in your life. I force myself not to look around while Gia runs my credit card. After I sign the receipt, however, I discover a logistical problem.
Brooklyn’s sound asleep on the couch.
Since leaving her here would be a gross violation of the girlcode (we’re besties even if she didn’t talk me out of getting a tattoo), I need to get her home. And while I definitely outweigh her, I can’t deadlift her. While I consider and abandon constructing a travois out of her borrowed jacket and hauling her ass home, Gia disappears with a little wave. Guess it’s quitting time at the zoo.
I could drag Brooklyn outside. The odds of that causing physical damage, however, seem high.
While I’m weighing bruises against camping in a tattoo shop overnight, a bike roars up, the noise of the pipes bouncing off buildings. Vik seems even larger and wilder straddling the enormous bike, which I figure out fast because my eyes just keep checking out his thighs, those long, muscled legs that end in the sexiest pair of boots, the powerful forearms that effortlessly guide the bike to a stop. I can’t stop looking, which in retrospect probably should be a red flag that this man isn’t easy. That he’s capable of riding all over my nice, tidy, way-too-single life as easily as he does the road.
I should have run out of Ink Me screaming.
Instead, I watch him swing off the bike and stride toward me. Possibly, I entertain a few fantasies about pillaging Vikings and village maidens. The fun parts, not the shitty moments involving murder and mayhem. Of course, Mr. Beautiful has no clue about the daydreams playing out inside my head. He’s just being a Boy Scout and making sure I’m sorted before he leaves for the night and whatever fun, sexy stuff bad-boy bikers who look like Vikings do in their downtime.
“Called you a taxi,” he says when he gets to me, reaching out to touch my arm lightly. The man is definitely snugglier than a cat. A really, really friendly alley cat, I remind myself. Even in high school, his dick had its own frequent flyer club.
“Thanks,” I blurt out while he stares patiently at me.
“You want me to follow you home and carry Sleeping Beauty inside?”
“Do you follow all your clients home?”
“Only the cute ones.” He winks.
I think about that for a moment too long. Nope. I’ve got nothing. Flirty banter is not something I excel at—I have a goddamned finance degree from Cornell. Sexy Quips 101 was not part of my Ivy League curriculum. Instead, I reexamine Brooklyn, hoping she’s magically decided to wake up, sober up and get up.
No such luck.
She snort-sighs, settling deeper into the leather couch. Vik laughs.
“She’s out for the night.”
Thank you, Captain Obvious.
He puts all those gorgeous muscles to good use, however, sliding his arms underneath her and scooping her up against his chest. They look perfect together, a beautiful blond god and goddess pairing. Her hair trails over his arm as he heads for the door. This is my cue to follow him, and since exhaustion is hitting me hard now, I do. If he’s got a solution for my Brooklyn problem, I’ll take it.
When we get outside, the taxi is just pulling up. Vik juggles his load of sleeping blonde, and says something to the driver. The guy nods, money changes hands, and then Vik walks around the car, pops open the back door and slides Brooklyn inside. When I open my mouth to protest about his paying, he cuts me off.
“Duane here is gonna see you back to your place. He can carry Sleeping Beauty in if she needs it.”
I shouldn’t find his ruthless, roughshod side attractive. I blame the broad shoulders stretching the leather of his jacket, or maybe it’s the way he leans in to buckle up Brooklyn. He’s big but he makes me feel both safe and sexy. He’s just playing around, but it’s been a long time since any guy made me feel like the queen of sexy. Like I don’t have to try harder or do more because I’m enough right now, just as I am. I thought I’d have to wait until I met my Mr. Right to feel like that. Looking back, I guess that should’ve been my first clue that Mark wasn’t the guy for me.
“Give me your address.” Vik flashes me a wicked smile and I’m grateful I don’t have to admit how wet my panties are.
I shoot him a look. He grins. Waiting. I heat up some more. “Because the driver needs it?”
Damn, the man has a sexy laugh. It’s low and rough, a dirty, happy-sounding chuckle. I smile back as he saunters back around the car.
“Because I want it, sweetheart.”
My girl parts decide this is the best reason ever. In fact, we should totally give Vik whatever he wants. Immediately.
Stupid.
“I’m at the Bellagio,” I admit. “I’m between places at the moment thanks to the Douche.”
Vik opens the door on my side and hands me in. I’m no dating virgin, but this is the first time any guy has ever physically steered me into a car. I look up at him, intending to protest, and lose my breath. God, he’s gorgeous. Gorgeous and so, so close. I can see firsthand that his eyes are still a dark, hard gray...and those beautiful eyes make me forget all about his appropriation of my elbow—and my free will.
My butt hits the seat oh-so-obediently, but he doesn’t let go. He cups my elbow with his palm, his fingers stroking briefly over my forearm. It’s hardly pornographic but it’s been a long time since anyone touched me. Or wanted to. I know Mark didn’t, because our California King–size bed had stricter borders than North and South Korea. Mark hadn’t crossed those lines to my side of the bed in months.
Vik retreats, shuts the door and then leans down, his big, tattooed hands curling around the open window frame. “Got a proposition for you.”
“Okay.” I’d like to pretend I don’t sound breathless, but this man is like fine wine. He’s only gotten better since high school.
“We’re having a party out at the clubhouse tomorrow night. Think you’d have fun if you came out.”
Is he asking me out on a date? Or maybe this is the biker version of a coffee? In theory we’re old high school friends who haven’t seen each other in years, so this could be strictly platonic, or him just being nice because he’s aware my life is a mess.
“You’re thinking too hard.” He looks amused as he pulls a business card out of his jacket pocket and scribbles an address on it. He takes my hand, tucking the card into my palm and closing my fingers around it. His thumb strokes over my knuckles briefly. “Say yes. I promise I won’t forget you this time.”
His eyes dip to my mouth. Is he thinking about kissing me? Am I thinking about kissing him?
“Maybe,” I blurt out, my good intentions melting like my panties.
I’m still trying to decide as he saunters back to his bike, straddles the seat and rides off. Usually, I’d just admire the view and get on with my life, but nothing about today has been normal. I’ve been rendered homeless, dumped and inked. And after an evening of downing way too many cocktails, I’ve also got a monster-size thirst to go with the start of a headache—and the contacts I’ve been wearing all day aren’t helping. Hooking up with a biker and tattoo artist is also something I wouldn’t usually do.
But I’m painfully aware that the man’s ass and thighs are a delicious work of art that deserve appreciating. Biker. Charmer. Player. Vik is all of these and more, and the sex appeal just rolls off him. Maybe we could hook up, but it couldn’t end any better than it did the first time.
Trouble.
That’s what Vik is. He’s Capital T Trouble.
He’s not the Mr. Right I’ve been searching for, he doesn’t fit into my life plan, and that makes him most definitely not the person I need in my life right now. If I were smart, I’d sit out on dating for a few months even if said life plan calls for marriage and kids before I’m thirty-five and my eggs start drying up like water in the desert. It’s just that I’d swear Vik looked at me like he liked what he saw. I mean, really, really liked what he saw. And he walked me out and gave me his card and God I need to find a life somewhere. I’ve already taken his dick for a ride, so it’s not like I can even blame curiosity for the warm sensation licking my belly and melting all my resolve.
I settle slowly into the seat as the taxi pulls away from Ink Me. Brooklyn makes a face like she’s giving serious consideration to puking, so I rub her back and try to not hear the wounded animal sounds she’s making.
I should throw Vik’s card away. Instead, I turn it over. It’s the general card for Ink Me, with all the basic contact information for hitting up the tattoo parlor for an appointment. On the reverse side, however, Vik has scrawled an address and two words.
Come over.
Oh, and he’s also sketched a cartoon Viking that’s...
Doing something downright obscene.
To a very large penis.
That has...
Ink?
I shove the card into my purse and try not to wonder if Vik has tattoos in some very personal areas. How likely is it that a guy would let a needle and ink anywhere near his favorite body part? Plus, the pain. And how would that even work? Do you ink when you’re hard or soft?
He has to be exaggerating.
I make a mental note to Google penis sizes and hand-to-dick ratios. After that, I’ll clear my browser cache and get on with my life, curiosity satisfied.
Really.
I will.
Bad boys and bankers don’t mix.
CHAPTER FIVE (#u115d2751-7af2-5889-bd97-c1244875cbf1)
Harper
MY LIFE DOES not magically sort itself out overnight.
This comes as no surprise, although part of me wishes I’d inherit a fairy godmother or some magic beans. Instead, I wake up alone in my Bellagio hotel room. Since I’m only here for a week or two until I find a new place and I’m paying for my reservation with the Douche’s lifetime hoard of frequent flyer miles, I upgraded to a room with a fountain view. This means I don’t even have to get out of bed to see the watery fireworks. One push of a convenient bedside button and the blackout drapes part with a dramatic swoosh, sunlight pouring inside as the water below shoots upward to the sounds of “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.”
I go all in and order room service pancakes. A pot of overpriced coffee, hothouse strawberries and a pound of butter improve my mood substantially. I send emails and make calls, setting up appointments to view various condos because unfortunately I can’t live at the Bellagio forever.
I do Saturday things after I’ve done what I can to organize my life, because it would be a shame to be camped out at the Strip’s fanciest hotel and not take advantage of it. I swim in pools surrounded by faux-Grecian statuary spouting water. I lose ten bucks in the slot machines. I pass on visiting the art gallery in favor of the ginormous chocolate fountain in the hotel’s candy shop because everything is better with chocolate.
And the whole time I keep thinking about last night. About Vik’s casual invitation to join him at an MC party. He might be hot and uninhibited, but he’s also a biker, and he’s the guy who banged me in the back seat of his car after high school prom...and then promptly forgot my name, my face and every detail of that encounter. I’ve probably idealized his bedroom skills. He’s not worth pursuing, and he likely has zero interest in me that way, even if he did offer to be my booty call. Who says those kinds of things?
Other than company events, I can’t remember the last party I went to. There aren’t many festive moments on my calendar. Okay, so I could swing by Vik’s clubhouse and check out his party. My night’s wide-open, and how many opportunities will I get to ogle an entire roomful of bikers? Since I’m most definitely not drinking tonight, I could even drive there, which would give me a handy escape route. I’m assuming a biker event is a little rowdier and grittier than, say, a fund-raiser ball, and it’s entirely possible I’ll feel too uncomfortable to do more than just look in.
I go through the clothes I’ve stashed in the closet. Most of them are work things, with a healthy side of yoga pants. Nothing screams party. I do a quick Google search for biker get-together dress codes but come up mostly empty. Lots of leather and denim, plus the occasional porn-or Coachella-worthy outfit that makes Princess Leia’s slave girl bikini look like a nun’s habit.
Huh.
Going naked—or even mostly naked—seems like it would send the wrong message, plus I can’t picture myself strutting around in denim shorts and a black bikini top. Maybe it’s all in the footwear?
I could go shopping.
Something tells me that Vik would really enjoy a pair of fuck-me Louboutins, for instance. Or I could wear yesterday’s heels.
But I feel like something new to go with the new me.
I end up calling Brooklyn for a consult, and then she meets me in the lobby and we hit the Desert Passage Shops at the Aladdin. There’s an awesome bar smack in the middle of the mall like the best kind of desert oasis. We make a well-deserved pit stop there for yard-long frozen margaritas that come in fluorescent yellow bongs and manage to achieve both quantity and quality.
After that, we hit the shops. Brooklyn insists that I need to go for a whole new look, and I’m in the mood for a change. She grabs an armload of insanely teeny clothes off the rack in a store I’ve never stepped foot in before. It’s the kind of place that advertises on the pages of Vogue, and I’m pretty sure the fabulously gorgeous clothes will be wasted on a bunch of bikers. So it’s a good thing I’m dressing for me now.
I come home with a ridiculously expensive black tube top and a pair of wicked stiletto booties with ribbons instead of laces. Outside of work, I avoid anything that adds to my height, but new me, new rules, and apparently New Me has decided tonight’s theme is girlish bondage. I shimmy into a pair of skinny jeans that seem to have gotten smaller since their last wash, and then I hit the road.
Vik’s clubhouse is not exactly on the Strip. In fact, it’s most definitely in East Las Vegas, and the blocks get grittier and more dangerous as I get closer. It’s the kind of neighborhood with bars on the windows, bright splashes of graffiti and cars up on blocks. Pots of succulents and geraniums line the walkways adding some hopeful color, and more than one strand of white twinkling lights wrap around palm trees despite the summer weather. Eventually, the houses give way to block after block of slightly run-down, gone-to-seed warehouses. In the movies, this is the point where the bad guys come out shooting or there are gratuitous explosions.
The GPS on my phone announces it’s time to turn. I’m not sure what I expected, but Vik’s clubhouse looks like all the other warehouses—except for the parking lot full of bikes. Who needs a sign reading Biker Party Here or a clutch of helium balloons with all those Harleys reeking of testosterone?
The bikers themselves don’t seem too scary. I mean, they’re definitely not firemen, or lawyers, or anything remotely wholesome-looking or suit-wearing, but they’re also not engaged in any visible felonies, which I appreciate. They’re simply a bunch of guys milling around the bikes, talking and joking. The dress code appears to call for leather and boots. Music pounds out of the warehouse when someone pulls the door open. I don’t recognize the singer, but the song has one of those hard-hitting, pulse-raising beats that makes you want to dance in place or screw.
I so don’t belong here.
Nevertheless, one of the younger bikers waves me into an empty spot next to a row of trucks. I spot a Camaro, a Dodge Charger and a dented-up minivan that looks about as bikerly as I do, so there’s hope for my evening after all. Perhaps the Hard Riders practice a more inclusive form of clubbing?
When I get out, the fresh-faced biker gives me a nod. “You looking for someone?”
I’ll bet they don’t get too many party-crashers. “Vik.”
“Inside,” he says. I think he smirks—or possibly rolls his eyes. I’m clearly not the first woman to ask after Vik tonight. “Probably in back by the bar. Might be spinning.”
I lock my car (although I’m not sure that’s going to stop anyone) and head for the clubhouse. The front door is much more imposing and formidable than the parking lot attendant. In fact, it’s clearly been built for mega-giants, and I wrestle with it for a long moment, my glasses sliding down my nose.
A thick, inked arm reaches over me and shoves it open.
“Ladies first,” the arm’s owner drawls. He looks me up and down slowly, taking in my jeans and dressy boots. I suddenly know how a zebra feels when it accidentally steps into a lion’s den. The look on this guy’s face is part amusement, part hunger. I’d like to tell him I’m not a steak, but the patch on his vest says PRESIDENT, and I have a feeling that makes him the king of this particular kingdom. If he says I’m steak, I’m steak.
“Is this your club?” I like to know who’s in charge, but Mr. I’m-Gonna-Eat-You-Up seems to find my question funny because he just snorts and reaches down to shove my glasses back into place.
“Yeah. I’m Prez. You got an issue with that, sunshine?”
I think about that for a minute and shake my head. Despite my invitation, coming out here seems less smart all the time. Some women like living dangerously, but I’ve never been one of them. I prefer my life safe and sane, which begs the question of what I’m doing here. Starting over. Taking a chance. About to suffer public humiliation. You can take your pick, but my car and escape looks better and better.
“In,” he rumbles, his hand pressing against my shoulder. I decide not to protest, and move forward.
Prez follows me inside, so close that the front of his thighs brush the back of mine. I don’t think that’s an accident. He cups my elbow, herding me in the direction he wants me to go. This whole life-changing stuff is stupid. Take-charge guys have never been my thing. Except Vik, a little voice whispers in my head. You like him.
I’m working on that.
You hear things about motorcycle clubs and the Hard Riders have a certain reputation, or so my Google-fu tells me. While they look after their own and spend a commendable amount of time giving back to their community (Vik wasn’t kidding about the Christmas toy drive), they also ride hard and party harder. There are darker rumors and whispers, too, about how they have a zero-tolerance policy on drugs and are key players in East Las Vegas’s war on illegal substances—although it appears they’re big fans of beer.
The place is definitely not the bat cave.
Music blasts from the back of the warehouse. The clubhouse is huge, the entire downstairs floor open and jammed with gyrating, dancing, drinking bodies. Lots of black leather couches have been pushed back against the wall to open up a path to the makeshift bar in the back. Longnecks and red Solo cups are the order of the day. As is skin. I’ve never seen this much skin on display outside of a beach or a Vegas strip revue. As I scan the crowd, looking for Vik, I realize I’m overdressed.
In fact, clothing seems to be largely optional and I could have saved the money I spent on my shopping trip and just worn my underwear. A brunette in what could be a tube top or a dress brushes past us. The stretchy fabric barely skims her butt, and that’s before she squeals and throws herself at her dance partner. She scissors her legs around his waist. Everyone here is loud and uninhibited.
A red cup dangles in front of my face.
I take it. I don’t know where it came from, so I’m not drinking it but I need something to do with my hands, and I’m definitely not doing what the brunette is doing. “Thanks?”
Prez winks at me. “Who’re we lookin’ for?”
He’s got a soft, smoky burr of an accent that makes me think of warm Louisiana nights and the bayou. It’s the kind of drawl that almost but not quite distracts you from the fact that this is the guy who runs a biker club and could probably have you killed with one nod of his head.
I really should care about that. Instead, I pony up the answer he’s looking for. “Vik.”
Prez rubs his free hand over his chin, his pained sigh gusting over my skin. “Figures.”
I want to ask what that means, but I’m distracted by the madman bouncing around the dance floor. Shoulder-length blond hair flies everywhere. Vik dances all-out. Muscular, inked arms cut through the air as he thrashes to a beat that bears no resemblance whatsoever to the music vibrating through the warehouse. Faded blue jeans hug his ass and end in a pair of motorcycle boots. Just in case the gift-wrapping on that particular part of the package doesn’t scream open me, he’s wearing his club vest over a fitted white T-shirt. Muscles bulge as he executes another move and part of me wants to hang all over that arm. See how good it feels. Shove it between my legs.
I’m not the only one with that idea.
A skinny, fabulously gorgeous woman in a barely there black leather dress shimmies up to him and starts using him as her own personal dance pole. They’re so close that her breasts press up against his arm and she’s riding his thigh as she grinds high and bumps low. I’m so glad I made the effort to come tonight.
And apparently Vik prefers quantity to quality because not one but two more wanna-be dancers latch onto him as he burns up the dance floor. I feel like I should be pulling a wad of one-dollar bills out of my purse and rewarding their efforts.
“Is he always like this?” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them.
Prez chuckles. “Pretty much. Man’s the fucking Energizer Bunny when it comes to gettin’ laid.”
Just great.
I take a step backward and bump awkwardly into Prez. Shit. Naturally, my reaction is to lurch forward to put some space between my butt and his groin. Prez laughs again, his hands steadying my hips as I rock on my stupid high heels. He bellows Vik’s name, the sound all but getting lost in the general chaos and uproar that is a biker party. Not that I was expecting to be announced by trumpets or a twenty-one-gun salute, but still.
Miracle of miracles, Vik looks toward us. A wicked grin lights up his face and he dumps the leg-humper off his thigh.
“Harper!” he yells back. His inside voice is loud enough to carry over the deafening beat of the music. So loud that heads turn to stare at me. I consider beating a hasty retreat, but New Me insists on sticking around. She’s either brave or horny, and I’m not sure I want to find out which.
Prez chuckles and pats me on the butt. “See you later, sunshine.”
In a weird way, I don’t mind it because the gesture seems less like a creepy grope and more like a friendly overture. Maybe these guys just don’t have normal social skills. Or were never housebroken.
Vik bounds over, throwing his arms out. “You found me.”
“I did.”
People—bikers—are still staring.
Possibly, it’s because I’m wearing more clothing than all of Vik’s previous companions combined. I look down quickly just to make sure that I am fully dressed and not having one of those living nightmares where you waltz into a room buck naked.
I throw caution to the wind and take a sip of my drink, hoping it’s magic. A potion like Alice in Wonderland’s Drink Me, except maybe it will make me articulate. Give me the gift of gab so that I know what to say to this man. This gorgeous, hot biker who ties me up in knots. Of course, I consumed way more alcohol last night and look how that ended up. I have a tattoo on my back.
Vik grabs my hand. “Dance with me, Harper.”
I wait for my drink to kick in, but no luck. Red punch and a truly impressive amount of grain alcohol will not be riding to my rescue tonight.
“Do I look like I dance?” The pole-dancing, thigh-humping antics of his previous partners are not part of my repertoire.
The corners of his mouth quirk up.
I sort of hate him for the way my panties promptly get wet.
Vik sets his hands on my hips—my hips—and tugs me closer. He links his hands on top of my butt, fingers skating dangerously close to inked territory, and then he rests his forehead against mine.
“You don’t have to dance well,” he whispers. I’m pretty sure his mouth brushes my hair. My cup is jammed between us and I have no idea what to do with my spare hand.
“Okay?” New Me, I remind myself. She might turn out to be an awesome closet dancer, so I should make the effort to find out. My feet are still rooted to the floor, though, when somebody jostles us and I slop punch on the front of Vik’s shirt. His white shirt. Kill. Me.
“God, I, shoot...” I scrub at the front of his shirt. The stain is approximately the size and shape of North America. Possibly South America, too. This is why I don’t get asked to parties.
“Hey.” He nudges my chin up with his thumb. “No big deal.”
He’s so beautiful.
I blame my embarrassing muteness on his face. He’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen and he’s within touching distance. When he removes his thumb from my face, I almost sigh in disappointment.
And then he flashes a devilish wink at me and shrugs out of his vest. “Hold this for me, babe.”
The leather vest he drops into my hands is warm from his skin. You know how there are moments when you can feel your whole life pivot? Because the universe has just served you a red letter day and you need to stop and memorialize that date in your journal? Maybe slap some washi tape and gold stars on that bad boy so that when you look back, fifty years from now, you’ll know to tell your grandkids about the day you met dear old granddad and how the trumpets blared and the angelic hosts all pointed at him and declared him to be The One?
I wish I could tell you that’s what happens here. I wish I could say I looked at Vik and knew he was a good man and that together we’d have something meaningful.
But I can’t.
I am, however, 100 percent in lust with him.
Just look at him.
How could any woman resist?
He hauls his T-shirt over his head in one smooth move and the man could do underwear ads. He’s got the most amazing six-pack, all cut muscles dusted with the finest of golden hairs. And the fact that I know this only proves that I’m standing way too close to him. I imagine this must be how Eve looked at Adam the day she realized he had a dick and he was naked. My gaze travels down in pure appreciation. And then goes down some more until all those pure feelings of admiration melt into something far dirtier and hotter. Dear God, the man has been blessed.
“If you wanted me naked, all you had to do was ask.”
And just like that he short-circuits the remaining brain cells in my stupid, besotted head. Smacking myself upside my head sounds like a plan, except I need whatever thinking power remains up there. Logic is my new best friend. Calm. I probably should have taken one of those yoga classes where they teach you how to be all Zen and in the moment because right now I’m practically hyperventilating.
Vik isn’t helping. He tugs his vest out of my hands (I don’t particularly want to give it back), shrugs it on and then tosses the dirty T-shirt onto the floor. “Come on.”
I shove my tongue back into my mouth and let him lead where he will. Which is apparently from one group of bikers to the next. And surprisingly, everyone I meet is pretty chill. They tip their heads at me or wink or flash a killer grin, and...I’m having a good time. Plus, Vik turns out to be more of a cuddler than a humper or a groper (contrary to his dance floor exhibition). He keeps an arm around me, squeezing me up against his side as he steers us from group to group. Since he’s mostly naked from the waist up, I find this contact deeply distracting.
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