His intake of breath is sharp, and under my palms, his heart is racing. “My ink.” His nostrils flare. He looks like a tiger about to pounce. “On you.” His erection is more insistent now. He likes the idea.
“Yes. I love your designs, and I really want—”
He pulls away and turns me around. I yelp in surprise as he pushes me flush against the wall and draws my wild hair to the side. “I’ll ink you all right,” he whispers, and something fine and cool touches my bare shoulder.
I shudder. “What are you doing?”
“Inking you,” he bites out the words, and the sensation tickles. He’s drawing something, I realize, but what? With what?
“Zane…”
“It’s not permanent, don’t worry.” His hand is sure, the lines flowing on my skin, faster and faster. Then he’s drawing letters, and I squirm, trying to see what he’s doing, but his other hand is pressing the small of my back, keeping me still. “Almost done.”
How did we go from almost kissing to ‘almost done’ and ‘not permanent’? What is he doing? I struggle again, and this time he releases me. He’s holding a ballpoint pen in his hand, and he throws it on a table in the corner.
“What did you do?” I demand, trying to see over my shoulder, going cross-eyed with the effort.
“Inked you,” he bites out the words and turns around, yanking the door open. “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
I gape at his back, and then he slams the door behind him. Oh shit. Is he upset with me for insisting?
A mirror beckons from across the table, and I move, so I can see my back. There, on my shoulder blade, is a magnificent bird of paradise, its tail trailing on my neck. Below, in a flowing script, it says, ‘inked by Zane.’
Son of a bitch. I clap a hand over my mouth, laughing. He inked me, and as he said, not permanently.
God, he’s getting under my skin. He comes to hear me sing, he touches me, almost kisses me—yeah, the ‘almost’ is killing me—then draws on me, and leaves.
What does it mean? What does he feel? Was he upset? Did drawing on me turn him on more?
Is this an invitation to see him again, or a goodbye gift?
Because I want to see him again, badly. The more I hang around him, the more intriguing he becomes. Besides, he’s gorgeous. I want to know how he kisses and what he tastes like. I want to put my hands and mouth on every lickable ab and divot on his chest and check out his package.
Just the thought makes my mouth water. Oh crap, he’s right. I do want him to fuck me senseless.
What am I going to do?
When I slink out of the backstage room, pulling my leather jacket on, nobody’s on stage. The crowd has thinned out, hanging out at the bar and back tables. The large TV on the wall is on, showing a concert.
Where is Zane?
My cell vibrates in my pocket, and I ignore it, still searching for a tall Mohawk, and just when I think I’ve spotted him with a group of people behind the bar, my cell rings again.
I frown as I pull it out and glance at the screen. Then I roll my eyes, but not in earnest. Deep inside, I’m pleased for the call, if not for the timing. “Yeah, Mom?”
“How did it go, baby girl?” Mom sounds breathless. She always gets so excited when I sing and would be here if she could. But she’s babysitting my cousin Mary’s kids tonight and can’t come all the way to Madison.
“It went fine, Mom. Thanks for asking. How is everyone back home?”
“Great, honey. We miss you. When are you coming to visit?”
I chew on my lower lip, staring at the back of Zane’s head. He’s talking to a girl. A curvy dark-haired girl who’s practically shoving her tits into his face. She giggles, and even from here I can hear the high-pitched sound. It sets my teeth on edge.
My heart takes a nosedive.
“Honey? Koty?”
“Don’t call me that,” I mutter and instantly regret it. “Sorry, Mom.”