Those damn perfect pouty lips, made for kissing.
She drives me wild with her unintended sexiness. The fact that she doesn’t see it, how gorgeous she is, should be a crime.
“Here?” she asks, shifting just enough of her blouse to show some cleavage.
I have to bite my tongue to stifle a groan.
“Or… here?” she asks again, turning her back to me, lifting the same blouse just enough to show me the perfection of the small of her back.
Are those dimples I see?
Fuck.
My mouth is suddenly so dry I’m sure I can feel sand when I finally do speak.
“Show me the first one again,” I murmur, feeling my cock begin to throb as she trembles.
Shifting her blouse a little further.
“Here?” she whispers, moving her hand and blouse further until I watch my hand cover hers.
Stopping her before she shows me more than I can take. Before I lose the little control I have left.
Abby doesn’t pull her hand away, and with mine covering hers, flat on her chest, we both feel our faces begin to move closer of their own accord.
Every doubt and worry I had before seems stupid once we let nature take its course.
“How ‘bout here,” I murmur, focusing on her deep blue eyes as her lips part, ready to taste mine for the first time.
“There you are,” A voice booms, making Abby jump a clear foot back from me, leaving me wondering what the fuck’s just happened.
“I thought I’d find ya here,” Brick grunts, ignoring Abby and taking a swig from his bottle he announces it’s time for me to do some more work on one of his long-term pieces.
“Not a great time, Brick,” I practically snarl, making him laugh like a child.
The party he’s having in his bottle shows as much as we can smell it on him.
I guess he’s not riding home tonight.
Ugh, a house full of these guys for the whole night?
Any other night, maybe.
But tonight of all nights?
No. Just not gonna happen.
I’ve got more important things on my mind.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Abby
I don’t know what’s come over me.
Maybe it’s how sure Slade is that I shouldn't get a tattoo, or maybe it’s just finally being alone with him. Knowing he’s open to the idea of a younger girl and an older guy.
Especially an ex-biker.
Jeez, Abby. He’s practically spelled it out for you. Given you a green light.
You just gotta get up some courage.
Show Slade I’m up to being his girl and not just some… girl.
Before I know it, I’ve yanked my blouse to one side and showed him as much of my rear as I can reach.
That part of my fantasy is coming true at least, asking Slade which is better.
A tattoo on my chest or on my ass.
His reply is wordless, and with his huge hand on mine covering half my chest, it feels like everything is moving in slow motion. Like in the movies when two people fall in love or are about to kiss.
But before Slade’s lips can reach mine, we’re interrupted again by his rowdy biker friend Brick.
The President of the club now, I gather, and already full of more than his fair share of drink.
I feel robbed. Like the one truly good thing to have ever almost happened to me is being torn away.
And as much as Slade himself grumbles over Brick barging in, he uses it to illustrate his previous example.
The one I overlooked because it doesn’t involve Slade’s hands all over me while he inks me.
“Brick, show Abby here what you’ve had altered, what tattoo you had removed,” Slade says firmly. As though he’s coaching an unruly infant.
“You want to see my vasectomy scar?” Brick asks, hiccuping then laughing like an idiot.
I can’t help but smile, and Slade sees the funny side too but wants to prove his point I guess.
“Nobody wants to see that, Brick. And you’re far too drunk to have any ink work done. Now come on. Show us what happens when you want ink taken off,” Slade commands.
The aging biker sets down his bottle carefully, and although unsteady on his feet, he lifts the oversized shirt that fits him snuggly and at once I can see what Slade was talking about.
Sure it’s faded and covered in matted bear fur or whatever Brick’s growing naturally.
But even after what I can tell must be years, there’s still a permanent reminder.
“Ink’s forever. Even when it’s gone,” Brick says clearly, the only lucid thing I’ve heard him say so far before he slaps Slade on the back, slurring orders of his own that he return to his birthday party. “On the double. An’ that’s an order.”
Slade easily turns the big man to face the door again, and a couple of other members come in, making their apologies to Slade for their President's behavior.
“He’s alright,” Slade assures them. “But he’s not riding anywhere, and he’s not staying the night here,” he calls after them once they make as speedy an exit as they can.