He rubs a finger over the perfectly executed lines of his work, his gaze laser focused on—well—on my vajayjay—as blasé as if he were checking out something on my ankle.
Aftercare. Just normal, everyday tattoo aftercare. I think.
“It’s a little dry.” Without looking up, he reaches into the back pocket of his khaki green boardshorts and pulls out a tube of ointment. “I picked this up for you yesterday but—” His gaze flicks up to mine. “It’s been a rough couple of days.” He clears his throat and jerks his head back down.
“I’m a good listener.” My fingers curl before they do what they’re itching to do and sink into his hair.
“I’m not much of a sharer.” His fingers, slick with the transparent gel slide over the delicate, uber-sensitive skin, and my brain stutters over whatever it was ... I was ... what was I saying? My breaths speed up and my abs tense. His free hand slides back to my hip and I barely stop myself from moaning or tilting my hips ... or spreading my legs.
“I’m impressed with your—” I clear my throat “—aftercare.”
“We aim to please.” The circles he’s rubbing over my tattoo widen, slide lower until there’s no way, on any planet his actions could be misconstrued. We’re officially out of customer service mode.
“I know what you’re doing.” A whisper of a moan escapes as I arch into his touch. Distraction at its finest.
The muscles of his shoulders twitch and stretch beneath his golden skin and he lifts his stare to mine, need replacing any of the sadness that may or may not have been visible there before. It’s hot. Everything about this is hot. “What am I doing?”
“Using sex to hide from your problems.” My cheeks flush and I barely manage to stop my eyes from rolling when his fingers skim a circle wide enough to almost touch where my body is aching for attention.
“And you know this how?” His lips twitch with the beginning of a smile.
“Because it’s exactly what I do.”
A second later he’s on his feet and his fingers finally slide beneath my bikini bottoms, sinking into my wetness, his palm pressed tightly against my clit. Our lips hover millimeters from touching, his breath fanning over my cheeks. I pant. Full-on pant. I can’t help it. I’ve no idea where he learned the whole bend, thrust, press thing he’s doing with those fingers, but all the air leaves my lungs in a whoosh. My muscles clench greedily, my pelvis rocks to gain more friction, each and every one of my nerve-endings vibrating and aching and tightening. I may keen. I might even mew. I definitely twist my fingers into his hair and hold on, press my forehead against his and ride the feeling of his hands on me until my climax begins to bubble up from my core, spreading heat up my spine, forcing my body to bow into his. Our stares stay locked, our lips still hovering. His hand keeps moving, his fingers—my God his fingers. The pressure builds and grows and shifts until something that could be a command but could just as easily be a plea escapes me. “More.”
His dimple flashes with a satisfied smirk and with one last finger thrust and grind of his palm I explode, head still pressed to his, stares still locked, rocking against him until the shockwave of pleasure eases into a rolling heat in my belly.
This time the creases around his eyes do make an appearance. I’m sure mine do too. I lift onto my toes and nip his bottom lip with my teeth then push him back one step, then another, and another until we’re through his bungalow door.
His thumb traces a lazy line up my spine. I hum happily and adjust my head where it’s resting on his chest. I keep waiting for the urge to run to take hold. It doesn’t. That in itself should be warning enough. I shift to peek into his half dozing face.
His eyes are heavy-lidded as they scan my face. “Tell me your story, Stan.”
“My story?” I snort into his chest then shift my hand to run a finger over the skull on his pec. “You already know my story. Music workshops. Sex with bad-mannered boys.”
His body jerks with his laugh, but his fingers keep up their trailing of my spine. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel all kinds of nice. “No, I mean, what makes you tick.”
Still feigning interest in the tattoos of his torso, I keep my eyes firmly on my fingers. “Music. Music makes me tick.” I wiggle closer into his side, more to see if it’ll finally click my usual instinct to get out of there than because of the feeling of his warm skin pressed along the length of my body. Maybe. “I mean—there’s nothing like playing in front of a crowd, is there? I’d live on stage if it weren’t for all the backstabbing and lies that go with it.”
His eyebrows have tipped down in the middle when I turn back to face him, his lips parting like he’s about to say something before he stops himself. Probably to tell me it’s worth it to do what you love. “Stan—”
It’s not.
I hold up my hand to cut him off before he starts. “As soon as success and money and even a little bit of fame is involved, people think they own you. That they can lie and cheat and manipulate you anyway they want to.”
His lips press together, that muscle in his jaw ticking. “Sounds like you’re talking from experience.”
“Not me. My dad,” I blurt out, my cheeks heating with my lie. “Your turn. What’s your story?”
“My story—” His sigh is long and drawn out, ruffling the strands of my hair that have fallen over my eyes.
“Why are you the way you are?” I raise my eyebrows at the creases that have appeared on his forehead and the fading lines of his smile.
“Too deep?” I roll onto my back and stare at the wood panels of the ceiling, and the slow spin of the fan there. We suck at this. “Okay. Just tell me something interesting then.”
“Interesting?” His body relaxes. “You’re the first woman I’ve ever had in this bed.”
I glance at him from the corner of my eye. “Easier to leave when it’s not your house.”