He kills the engine in the parking garage, sitting silently. Today has been the most relaxing day I’ve had in a while. Well, I don’t know if the word I should use in describing a piercing should be relaxing, especially where Kross is concerned. I can name one single occurrence when I’ve been turned on while enduring pain inflicted by a needle and that would be today.
I wasn’t sure that whole pain is pleasure thing was anything more than a crock of shit until I saw the way he was looking at my nipples, meticulously thinking of every touch, every action. He acted way more professional than I wish he had, but there was no doubt that what I saw in his eyes was heat and the protrusion from his jeans was the result of a silent thought.
But everything after was laidback. He let me watch various styles being permanently etched on skin, I got to know most of the guys on more than a first name basis, and Kross didn’t even seem agitated when one offered to let me pull up a stool and watch like he would have if I sat with Remington, Wesson, or Joey. He even had pizza delivered for all the artists in the break room; something I’ve never seen Kross do. He’s just . . . different here, calmer. At least in the shop he is.
There is one thing, though, that I’ll never forget about this trip. The part that consumed most of our day. I let it play in my mind one more time, because it’ll forever be special to me.
“You know what you want?” Blaze asks as Kross removes his shirt and straddles his chair. “You’re running out of room down the arms but there is some space across your shoulder blade and the top of the arm free.”
“Delta,” he commands, pulling me out of my stare down with his partially naked, fine-as-fuck body. Gets me every damn time. Makes me stupid.
I walk forward. “What?”
“Wanna draw it?”
Apparently, I can’t hear either. “I’m sorry, but what?”
He glances at Blaze, but I can’t see the expression on his face with him facing away from me. Blaze pulls open a drawer and follows through by handing me a marker. He laughs at whatever expression I’m wearing. “He wants you to design it, beautiful. Have a seat.”
I stand here, holding this marker like a damn idiot, shaking. “Kross?”
He breathes out, still not looking at me. “Come here, Delta.”
I do as he says, his eyes meeting mine. “I don’t think I’m ready,” I whisper. “If you don’t like it, you can’t just wash it off.”
His fingers hook over the front button of my low-rise jeans, his fingertips brushing against my smooth skin. He pulls me toward him. The pain from my newly pierced nipples slashes through me with the feel of his touch turning me on. “I’ve seen you draw. You aren’t an amateur. Stop bullshitting and tell me what’s really bothering you about it. You need to practice freehand on skin more than paper. A body isn’t two-dimensional and flat. You have to work with the natural curves and contours.”
“Because it’s you. Not some friend that can be pissed at me if it sucks.”
“You’re in my bed, on my cock, and also my roommate. I’m pretty sure that qualifies for any and all of the above. How is this different?”
I glance up, surprised he’d mention our sexual relationship aloud, even in hushed tones. The room is mostly vacant, only a couple artists still working at the moment. The rest are on break. At some point, Blaze put ear buds in and started prepping. “I’ve never seen someone with so much beautiful ink. Everything works together as if it belongs. I may not be an amateur with sketching in a notebook, but I am an amateur at this. I don’t want to mess it up. You’re important to me.”
I regret the last thing that slipped. It wasn’t intentional. But then he smiles. God, that smile doesn’t come out often, but it’s blinding. My panties become a puddle of hot need. “Sit your ass down and stop overthinking it. We have to learn to trust each other at some point. If it sucks, I’ll just take it out on you later.”
He tugs me closer to the chair, forcing me to straddle it behind him. I can’t argue with that outcome. Defeated, I sit, studying his back. I don’t get to see it like this very often, up close and personal in plenty of light. Every scar stands out to me even though it’s hidden in the ink. My heart re-crumbles every time I see one, reminding me that he’s been through so much more than I can even comprehend.
My hands rub up his body softly, my fingers gliding along every taut muscle, memorizing what he has already, learning his style. My heart smiles when goose bumps appear. Then, marker in hand, I think of something that would remind me of Kross. Not the slightly psychotic, hot tattoo artist, but the beautifully broken, wicked, protective man that I’m falling for. I just hope I don’t end up so far down the rabbit hole that I can’t come back.
“Are you sure you don’t want to do something? I’m not trying to keep you a secret, Delta. You don’t owe me anything. Here, I’m not your boss. We can do things if you want. I just may be shit at suggestions, but we do have to eat.”
I look at him, sitting over in the driver’s seat, hand on the wheel, opposite forearm resting on the center console. I desperately want to hold his hand, but I fight against it. He’s not that kind of guy.
I would like to do things like a normal couple, but the part he doesn’t realize—the reason I’d rather be alone with him—is because he gives me more of him in privacy. It’s selfish really. I’d rather sit at home and do random shit like play Guitar Hero with him any day than to go out in public and him clam up, so I lie. “I know. I’m just over stimulated and tired. Flying really kicked my ass. We still have tomorrow, right? I’m totally fine with hanging out tonight and exploring then.” I glance out the window at the dim parking garage to drive my point home. “This looks like a fancy building anyway. I want to see your digs, because I was totally expecting a hotel.”
He gets out and grabs our bags from the back, locking the doors as he leads the way. I follow behind the entire way to his door, standing patiently, observant of just how fancy it really seems inside. When the elevators are top notch you know you should be scared of what’s waiting.
He opens the numbered door and we walk inside. I halt, backing against the door as it shuts. It’s a fucking penthouse; an ungodly oversized, open layout, completely upgraded penthouse. How many of these does he have? I was joking downstairs, thinking it was a small apartment since he is obviously rarely here.
My nervousness spikes. I’m not Lux. I don’t know how to be a player in that game. I can’t compete with money, exotic cars, or money-hungry trophy girls. It’s a world I don’t belong in. I think for Lux, it gives her a sense of security; a peace in knowing she’ll never return to the life she came from.
But for me, money is a reminder of what my mother neglected me for. For a single parent she did okay for herself, but it was never good enough. She wanted the life she never got because of me. Money could make that happen. A man with lots of it is a ticket to a happy life.
Money is a form of power. She made me think she loved me by handing it out in small amounts here and there, but only enough to keep me fed and clothed. I swore I’d never be her; never be with a man because of what appeared to be in his bank account.
Money was also the reason I sold my innocence in the strip club. Dancing underage should have never been my life. Chuck hyped it up to win me over. It was a way to make a lot of money in a short amount of time. For me, I saw departure in my near future and needed a cushion to make it happen. Mom certainly wasn’t going to pay for college or help me find my way, and I never liked school enough to go past my senior year. Too many times I saw that money could make girls do things they wouldn’t otherwise.
I also know that women searching for sugar daddies take husbands away from wives. Mom wasn’t above seducing a married man. They were in the strip club regularly, shining their rings as if they meant nothing. People get hurt. They get cheated on. Money in large amounts isn’t for me. It destroys everything in its path. I’m a simple girl, and simple is good enough for me.
My back presses against the smooth wood in rolling waves. “Delta,” he says, caution in his voice. “Why do you look like a deer caught in headlights?”
“Are you rich?” The shameful question leaps from my lips in a fearful whisper.
“On paper, no, but I’m not hurting either. My tattoo shops bring in a profit that I could live off of and not want for anything. I’d be sitting comfortable with the rest if I never worked another day again. I can’t exactly claim arms dealing to the government on my taxes. And the riskier the job, the more it costs.”
I slide down the door until my bottom hits the cold tile, my chest heaving in the beginning stage of a panic onset. He slowly walks toward me and squats to my level. “I don’t think I can do this. Arm candy is something I’ll never be. Money makes people different.”
His arm extends, gripping my chin in his thumb and forefinger. “I’ve been ‘rich’ longer than you’ve been an adult. I prefer to invest my money in programs like homes for orphaned kids and abuse help for victims instead of cars and worthless materials.” He rubs just beneath my lip ring, his eyes burning into mine. “If arm candy is something I wanted, I certainly wouldn’t be with you.”
My heart explodes into a million pieces and the remaining sparks rain down into the pool that is my stomach. A feeling I’ve had every time my mother told me how ‘different’ I was compared to normal girls overcomes me—the girls that men want to publicly keep instead of playing with in the closet. My self-esteem burned out every time she told me the way I look embarrassed her. Somehow, through the blurry vision, the words find a way out. “What am I then?”
“You’re more.”
With no other words, he stands and turns, taking our bags farther inside. It doesn’t take long before his retreating form disappears. As if I was holding myself together, I break, and the tears fall. I’m not sure why. I feel like a silly little girl, but he brings forward every emotion I’ve worked years to block out, to bury. And for the first time in a long time, the insecure girl I used to be takes over, causing me to cry. Silently in my hands, against the door of a man that overwhelms me and scares me all the same.
Finally, the words slam into me—you’re more—and I pull myself together. I breathe deeply, wiping my eyes in an effort to look less like I’ve been crying, hoping like hell my eyes aren’t red. I stand, grabbing my purse to go find him.
It’s cute, though, you thought you had a choice.
I walk into the large bedroom to him sitting at the foot of the king-sized bed, his dark jeans blending with the navy bedding. The room is decorated to impress, unlike his house. I highly doubt he decorated it. Expensive looking art decorates the walls, a large area rug tying in the colors of navy and cream accents the floor. There is a gas fireplace mounted in the wall and reading chairs in the extra space to finish the look. By the lack of dressers, I’m guessing the closet must be massive. It’s very clean and orderly. Surprisingly, it seems very impersonal.
“I rent it out for additional income,” he says, looking down at his hands, fingertips pressed together. “Had it professionally decorated to appeal to tourists. Property is never a bad investment, but it’s useless if it doesn’t turn a profit.” He finally looks up at me, eyes locked and, emotional? “I guess when you grew up without a place to actually call home, you can’t help but need more than one.”
The tears fall in rapid succession, leaving no time to even ward them off. I lick the salty drops from my lips, forcing my lungs to work. Why is he explaining himself? “Money may change some people, but for others, it’s a vital part of life needed to function. It’s something I must have or I go to a dark place that’s hard to come back from. I do things that are hard to stomach there. Having money is a balance for me. My equilibrium between a place I barely escaped from and what most call normalcy. I’m not selfish with it. I give back more than what I keep. You can call me fucking Robin Hood if you want, but it keeps me sane. I work my ass off to make sure I have it.”
I can barely see through the salty sea spilling from my eyes. “Kross—”
The words lodge in my throat at the young boy sitting in front of me replacing the man I know; scared, bruised and battered, beaten. I try to blink him away and fail. When he looks at me, his dark eyes are hollow, his innocence stolen. Blood begins pouring from the cross that is slashed in his neck. Each scar I’ve memorized appears one by one, fresh. His mouth opens, and with one phrase shatters my soul. “Save me, Delta.”
I reach for him. “I’ll save you, Kross. I’ll find a way.”
“Delta,” his deep voice rings out, his hands holding my face. Kross is standing before me, his stance warning high alert, eyes scanning mine, searching for something within their depths. Every muscle feels heavy and defeated as I stand under his hold.
My hands wrap around his wrists, emotionally drained, cheeks soaked. It’s too late to be embarrassed at this point. “What?”
“I can’t be saved.”
“I can try,” I whisper.
His lips crush mine, feeling more like lead than a feather. My core floods with need. My breasts become heavy. His rough hands rub up my bare sides, gripping the bottom hem of my top.
Our lips part so that he can remove it. My bra falls before I can register that it’s unhooked. The nursing pads protecting my new piercings from my bra go with it, reminding me I need a shower from the fresh wounds.
“I need to shower first,” I say, winded, as he unbuttons my jeans and sends everything traveling to my feet with one push of his hands.
A single veer of his eyes to my chest and his hand finds its way between my legs, two large fingers pushing inside of my wet opening. Every logical thought runs into a back corner, leaving me unable to speak. Suddenly, his shirt is being tossed on the floor and my hands are working his jeans over his ass.
I drop to my knees, forcing his fingers out of me, and take his long length into my mouth, moaning down every inch as I quickly suck through each pump of my neck as my lips become a vise. Thank God for a strong jaw with a girth like his, making it harder to comfortably suck and control teeth. His thighs clench before the tiny, teasing bead of salty pre-cum is released. I lap it up, my hand gently squeezing around his balls.
He fists a handful of my hair and he jerks me to my feet, not letting me finish, before pulling me toward the bed where I’m tossed on top. My legs are pried open to the point of pain and his tongue flattens over my pussy, causing a fresh wave of moisture to rush forward.
He shovels through my folds and presses the hard tip against my clit. My bottom surges upward, my heart pounding, nerves sparking like sparklers. I grip his hair, trying to stop him with little success, my brain at war with my limbs. “Shower. Please. I reek of airports, planes, and sweat.”
He bites into my skin, his bottom teeth skimming against my clit, causing me to scream out in the most embarrassing cry.
He raises his body to an upright position. “Demanding little bitch today,” he says, before flipping me over as if I weigh no more than a piece of meat, disregarding my request. He grips my hips and pulls my ass into the air, the force pushing my head into the mattress, my face covered in a mass of black hair. The sting of his hand striking against my pussy sends my hands clenching firmly around the bedding. “It’s too bad I’m not the following orders kind.”
Then, as if teaching me a lesson, his mouth clamps over my clit, his nose closer to my most intimate place than before, the tip pressing inside. His oral assault is more than I can bear, and within seconds, I’m coming hard, my center being forced against him by the rest of my body as my orgasm tears through me.
When his mouth is no longer pressed against me, I roll over, spent and not able to move. I don’t have to. He lifts me off the bed and throws me over his shoulder, drawing out a squeal, and giving me a bird’s-eye view of one fine, hard ass, free of any markings or ink.
Hair swaying, I grip his hips as he previously did to me, and pull my lips against one cheek, before kissing the opposite.
He rewards me with a corkscrew motion as he slides a pair of fingers inside of me for the second time. “Fuck.”
My breath catches. When he slips out of me, my feet make contact with the pebbled floor of a shower. My hair sticks to my face as the water rains down on me from above in a steady, constant drizzle, hardly giving me a chance to catch my breath with water spraying from multiple angles.
He pushes me against a wall, his forearms pinning me in. His eyes look haunted, his body tense, the tension rolling off him with the water. “What happens when you fail?”
“What?” I ask, caught off guard.
“When you find out something lost this long can’t be saved.”
“We live with one foot in the fire . . . together.”
Then he kisses me in a way he never has: hungry, needy, trusting. His large body hovers over me, towering over my small size. He lifts me up, my arms and legs instinctively wrapping around him.
I’m preparing for him to take me hard and heavy but am surprised when he pushes into me in one precise movement. Instead of the pounding I’m awaiting, he rocks into me over and over. Every blissful invasion is a ripple effect as he pours his trust into me. He stills inside of me, releasing his orgasm as I tighten around him through my own, the emotional breakdown drawing it out sooner than normal.
He pushes his forehead against my chest, not speaking, and not making an effort to move right away. “Kross,” I say, the words on my tongue. He looks at me, and already I can tell he’s shutting back down, his eyes different.
I love you.
In my head, I was brave. I told him how I felt unlike the coward that I am. Because in my head, there is no fear of him not feeling the same. It’s a two-sided truth. In my head he says it back, when in the real world, I’m not sure he would. So instead I say, “Thank you for letting me in.”
And before he can say anything I softly kiss him, letting my lips say what my tongue can’t.
