Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Or not. I’m not his babysitter. Let it rot.
Monty leaves first. Leo and Kody follow, casting dark looks at Jag. When the door shuts, I exhale slowly and size up my opponent.
Alone, he’s more menacing. All coiled muscle and primal stillness. Everything about him radiates sex. It pisses me off that I feel it.
Lucky for me, I have a thing for women.
Women who dye their hair blue and smell like motor oil.
“Get comfortable.” I gesture at the tattoo chair. “Do you know what you want?”
“A leg sleeve.”
I go still. “That’s…”
“Sixty hours of work. Longer if the design is complex.” He cocks his head. “I expect complex.”
“Riiiight. But when you said a tattoo…”
“You assumed it would be a single session. That’s your problem.” He reaches for his belt with his good hand, fingers deftly working the buckle. “Start with a thigh piece.”
“Intimate.” I lean against my workbench, watching him undress without modesty.
“Thought you were a professional.” He steps out of his jeans, revealing sculpted thighs dusted with hair.
“I am. Strippers are professional, too. And while you’re working them, they’re working you. Are you trying to work me, Rath?”
“Maybe you’re reading too much into it.” He removes his shirt because… Why?
“And you’re saying nothing while revealing everything.”
Jesus in a crop top, his physique is imposing. Broad shoulders, lean waist, rippling muscles, all that shit. Why am I staring? It’s just aesthetics. Like admiring a weapon. Doesn’t mean I want to fuck the knife.
Still… There’s a pull. Feral. Wrong.
Impossible.
I shove it down hard. I’m not into him.
“Do you have a design in mind?” I force my gaze to his.
“I want a biomechanical jaguar. Full-sized.” He gestures at the rock-hard muscle from his knee to his hip. “With electrical circuits for veins and its claws gripping an anatomical heart covered in feathers.”
“A heart with feathers?” I narrow my eyes.
“You heard me.”
“Sounds personal.”
“It is.” He smiles, cold and secretive.
I nod slowly, understanding too well. The jaguar is his namesake. The feathered heart, obviously Dove’s. The circuits, his hacker skills, his need for control.
The whole thing is fucked-up and obsessive, exactly like him. It’s also clever, unapologetic, and badass. I hate myself for appreciating his vision.
Without another word, I sketch the design, blending sleek fur into intricate circuit patterns and claws sinking deep into the symbolic heart of a bird. Each line feels like a confession, each stroke a betrayal.
When I present the outline to Jag, his gaze softens with satisfaction, barely perceptible but undeniably there.
“Perfect.” He drops onto the chair.
After I prep my station, I don my gloves and straddle the stool, rolling it close to where he sits. Right up to his exposed, muscular thigh.
The room holds its breath as I grab a razor.
Why are my hands shaking? I shave strangers every day.
Resting a palm on his leg for balance, I drag the blade along the curve of his thigh and clear away the fine dusting of hair. The razor glides in slow strokes, and each pass leaves a clean, bare path behind it. His skin is smooth beneath the steel, the muscle taut underneath.
I focus too hard on the task. Maybe because Jag focuses too hard on me. The intensity in his stare makes the back of my neck prickle.
That done, I grab a sharpie and sketch directly onto his skin. No stencil. I rely on instinct and muscle memory.
Hard flesh flexes beneath my pen, sending a jolt through my nerves.
“Higher,” he murmurs.
With his black briefs in the way, I stretch the material to the side and add more detail farther up. Muscle leaps under my touch, but I don’t look at his face. I can’t.
“Higher,” he repeats. “I want the piece to wrap over the hip, reaching into the oblique.”
I can’t move the fabric high enough for what he wants. I pause, about to tell him it won’t work unless—
In one fluid motion, he hooks a thumb into the waistband and lowers his underwear, letting it hang around his knees. He’s completely exposed, utterly shameless.
Sweet suffering Christ.
I flick my gaze away before I get a good look at his dick.
“Problem?” he asks.
“Only if you start moaning. Cover yourself.”
“Are you this shy with all your clients?” He fully removes his underwear and drapes it over himself. “Or just me?”
“You’re not the first pervert to drop his pants in my chair.”
But he’s the sexiest.
Not that I care.
I return to the outline, drawing carefully, aware of my knuckles moving within inches of his groin and my breath brushing the inside of his leg. Every line I sketch is another line I’ll have to ink.
It’s going to be a long damn day.
“So…” My hand glides up the inside of his leg, the jaguar taking shape in my mind and flowing from my fingers. “Why her?”
He stares ahead for a beat, then down at me. “She’s mine.”
“That’s a diagnosis.”