Barging In (37 page)

I had to think about that. ’Cause it was true, we’d been talking for ages, and he didn’t look like he was bored. I smiled. Then I remembered what he’d said and wondered if I should stop smiling, but I thought, what the hell.

“The last thing I want on a date is intellectual conversation,” Lawrence carried on. “I get
quite
enough of that at work—bloody Hardwicke with his
well, of course, if you want to take the simplistic view of the Renaissance
.” Lawrence put on a funny voice for that bit. I thought he probably didn’t like that Hardwicke bloke much. Then he downed his drink in one. I probably should have told him to slow down, ’cause of how he’d been last night, but I didn’t want to make him not like me so much, so I didn’t. “Come back to my place. We’ll get a takeaway—you like Chinese?” I nodded. I love Chinese. He laughed. “You’ll probably need to order the banquet for four, the size you are.” He got up, and so did I, and then he said, “And while we’re there, maybe you can tell me what happened to my kitchen knives? I haven’t been able to find them since last night!”

So we went back to his place, and we had a Chinese takeaway, and we watched old Charlie Chaplin films. I like them ’cause you don’t have to be clever to get the jokes. I never thought someone smart like Lawrence would like them too.

And it got a bit late, and I thought, well, Larry’s a poof—see, he said I could call him Larry, ’cause nobody else did—and he keeps smiling at me, so maybe I should make a move? So I put my arm round him and pulled him close, but he sort of shivered, so I let go again. I didn’t want him to start shaking like last night.

“No, come back,” Larry said, and he snuggled into my side. I liked that. Then he reached up and kissed me, and I liked that more, so I put my arm round him again and pulled him onto my lap. He laughed. “If we tried this the other way round, you’d flatten me,” he said, and then he kissed me again. So I didn’t have to try and think of nothing to say. I liked the way his kisses tasted—all sweet-and-sour sauce and white wine—and the way his lips were so soft, but his chin was rough with stubble.

“Where did you get this scar from?” he asked, rubbing his thumb along it. It tickled when he got to my lip.

“Beer glass.”

“Were you attempting to drink from it at the time?”

“Nah. Some wanker in the pub din’t like my face.”

Larry’s eyes went wide. “So he shoved a glass in it? Christ!”

“’S all right. I broke his jaw.”

“God, I bet you did.” He laughed. “You know, you’re really not the sort of person I’d want to meet down a dark alleyway.” I didn’t say nothing, ’cause where we’d met last night had been down a dark alley. Maybe he wished we’d never met? “Joke, Al, joke,” he said, stroking my face, and I felt better.

We kissed again, and I shoved my hand up his shirt so I could feel his chest. Larry hasn’t got any chest hair, and his skin felt so smooth and soft I was worried I was going to scratch it with my rough hands. “Oh, that feels good,” he said, like he could read my mind.

Sometimes I wonder, if people get really clever, can they read minds? But I don’t think Larry can read mine. Not really.

I put my other hand on his arse and pulled him in tight, but it wasn’t so good with stuff in the way. “Get your clothes off,” I said, and it probably sounded a bit rough, but there wasn’t nothing I could do about that, I was so turned on.

Tattoos fade with time. Emotions never lose their edge…

A.J.’s Angel

© 2011 L.A. Witt

Luke Emerson is the last person Sebastian Wakefield expects to see strolling into his tattoo shop. But Luke’s not back after four years to take up where they left off. Not even to apologize for the cheating that broke them up.

Luke wants a custom tattoo, a memorial for someone known only as “A.J.” Much as Seb would love to tell Luke to take this ink and shove it, he’s a professional. Plus, he’s reluctant to admit, he wouldn’t mind getting his hands on Luke again. Even if it’s just business.

Once Luke’s in the tattoo chair, though, Seb finds himself struggling with all the anger and resentment he thought he’d left behind—and those aren’t the only feelings reignited. Their relationship may have been turbulent, but it was also passionate. Four years clearly hasn’t been long enough for the embers of that fire to go cold.

A few subtle hints from Luke is all it takes to make Seb consider indulging in some of that physical passion. It shouldn’t be that tough to keep his emotions from getting tangled up in sweaty sheets.

After all, it’s not like he’s in love with Luke anymore. Right?

Warning: Contains two exes who shouldn’t want each other like this, steamy ex-sex they shouldn’t be having, and a whole lot of ink.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
A.J.’s Angel:

The leather chair squeaked as he got comfortable, and I resisted the urge to shudder. So, here we were. We were really doing this. Making sure my back was to him, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. No matter how much I wanted to choke him just for breathing, I had to relax and be civil. I couldn’t tattoo while I was tense or angry.

Or turned-on.

Which was absolutely not a risk with Luke in the room.

Jason came out of the back, pulling on his leather jacket. My pulse jumped.
Tell me you’re not leaving already
…

“Hey, I have to run out of here,” he said. “Kimber’s making some more arrangements tonight, and I need to go make sure she doesn’t go over budget again.”

I laughed. “No rest for the engaged, eh?”
You bastard. I hope she’s picked the most expensive photographer in Seattle
.

“Pretty much.” Zipping his jacket, he glanced at Luke, then at me. “You have everything under control here?”

“I’ll call you if I burn the place down.”

He chuckled. “Whatever. Have a good night, man.”

“You too.”

He picked up his motorcycle helmet from behind his workstation and headed for the door. Once again, the bells above the door preceded a massive spike in my blood pressure. I was seriously considering removing those things. They always seemed to signal that I had nerve-racking company or was suddenly alone.

Alone with Luke Emerson.

Focus. Time to be Sebastian the Tattooist, not Sebastian the Bitter Ex-boyfriend
.

I sat beside him in my own chair. That was when I realized he’d worn a button down shirt. The sleeve would roll easily to his elbow, but to the shoulder? Not a chance. Even if it did, it would likely be too tight to keep that way for any length of time. If it wasn’t too tight, we ran the risk of having it fall and screw up my work.

“You’ll want to, um.” I paused, swallowing hard. “Take your shirt off.”

“Oh. Right.” He sat up, and I looked anywhere but right at him while he unbuttoned his shirt. Fabric rustled, leather squeaked, and he announced he’d finished partially disrobing by saying, “Where should I put this?”

I can think of at least one place
.

I coughed to mask a laugh that nearly escaped. “I’ll take it.” He handed me his shirt, and only then did I steal a glance at him. Thankfully, he’d worn a T-shirt underneath. Those sleeves were easier to secure than a rolled-up long sleeve, and the rest of the shirt kept his chest and abs safely out of sight. Well, as out of sight as washboard abs could be when covered by a T-shirt that was
that
tight.

You son of a bitch
.

Our eyes met briefly. We both quickly shifted our gazes away. I had no doubt the rush of heat in my face had turned my cheeks a nice shade of pink, and I couldn’t decide if his quiet chuckle was from nerves or if it was a smug acknowledgment that he’d caught me checking him out.

I forced myself not to look at him except for the skin I was being paid to mutilate. Pushing aside all of my impure and unprofessional thoughts, I concentrated on prepping him for the tattoo. I ran a disposable razor over his upper arm, making sure even the tiniest hairs were out of the way. Then I cleaned his skin and put the stencil on it, transferring the temporary ink to give me a guideline.

I sat back and scrutinized the lines. Gesturing at the mirror on the other side of the room, I said, “Have a look. Make sure it’s straight and exactly where you want it to be.”

He got up and went to the mirror. For a moment, he inspected the outline. He reached for it as if he wanted to run his fingers over it, but wisely hesitated before smearing the ink. His expression was almost reverent, and for the millionth time, I wondered just who A.J. was.

He must have been someone special
, I thought, and that tightness in my chest had nothing to do with jealousy.

Jealousy. Jesus. The very thought of being jealous of A.J. was both petty and pathetic. The man had died, for God’s sake. Whoever he was, he was gone now, and obviously he’d meant something to the man who’d repeatedly treated me like a doormat for his revolving door.

Anger swelled in my chest, but I took a deep breath and reminded myself to be professional. No sense getting worked up over the past. Relax, be civil and just get through this. Then it would be over and he’d be gone. Forever. I hoped.

I cleared my throat. “How does it look?”

Barely whispering, he said, “Perfect.”

“Ready, then?”

He took one last glance in the mirror, then nodded and returned to the chair. Once he was comfortable, I picked up the needle. He eyed it warily as I moved it toward his skin.

“This is just going to be the needle,” I said. “No ink. To make sure you can tolerate the pain.”

He swallowed. “Is it really that bad?”

“You tell me.”
Not like it’s the first prick you’ve ever felt
. I bit my tongue to keep from laughing.

Then I pressed the pedal down, and Luke shivered when the needle buzzed to life. Using my right thumb and forefinger to keep his skin tight, I touched the needle to him with my left. Just like everyone did, he sucked in a hiss of breath and every muscle in his body tensed, but he didn’t jerk his arm away, nor did he freak out.

“How does that feel?” I asked.

“It fucking tickles,” he muttered.

I laughed. Typical response. “So you can handle an hour and a half of that?”

He took a breath, then nodded.

I dipped the needle in a cup of black ink. “Here we go, then.”

At first, just like most people, he tensed every time the needle touched him. With every line, though, he relaxed a little more. If the endorphins hadn’t kicked in yet, they would soon. Some people were in pain right to the end; others sailed away on an endorphin high, especially if the tattoo was in a highly sensitive area. Still others winced and flinched the whole time, but with progressively less enthusiasm as they got used to it.

For a long time, we didn’t speak. I concentrated on the lines. He probably tried to think of anything but what I was doing.

All the while, I couldn’t shake that unsettled feeling, the same feeling I’d had since he’d walked into the shop the other day. There were things that needed to be said. What, I didn’t know, but there was something. If, as my father had suggested, Luke was here to talk to me, he wasn’t being very forthcoming about it. Though I supposed he might not have predicted just how intense the pain would be. That burn was something to which I’d long become accustomed, but it hurt. It definitely hurt. Whatever speech he’d intended to give was probably stuck behind his tightly clenched teeth.

Or maybe he knew that whatever he had to say would elicit an emotional reaction from me. Perhaps from both of us. As my dad had said, Luke wasn’t stupid, and maybe he’d thought twice about pissing me off while I was already inflicting pain on him.

I was of two minds. Get it out and get it over with? Or just quietly proceed with my work and hope this was the end of it? Either way, this was going to be one of the most difficult tattoos of my career, simply because I couldn’t fucking concentrate.

If it wasn’t the unspoken or the unknown, it was his physical presence. The very fact that he was here. In my shop. In a muscle-tight T-shirt stretched over
those
abs and
those
shoulders. Thick, medical grade gloves kept me from touching his skin, but they might as well have been made of the same ultra-thin latex as some of the newer, barely there condoms for all they did to keep his body heat from reaching my nerve endings.

As much as it killed me to admit it to myself, I couldn’t deny I was still attracted to him. Physically, anyway. He had an amazing body, and I had the misfortune of knowing exactly what that body was capable of. For all he’d hurt me back then, I’d have been lying to myself if I tried to say our sex life had been anything but spectacular. We had knee-trembling quickies whenever and wherever we could. We burned the midnight oil making love, even if it was just kissing and touching, for hours. It could be a single candle, Fourth of July fireworks, or anything in between. If anyone ever asked me to name the hottest sexual moment of my life—or wildest, most sensual, most daring, most emotional, whatever—I could guarantee it involved Luke.

Barging In

Josephine Myles

When the boat's a rockin’, don't come knockin’!

Out-and-proud travel writer Dan Taylor can’t steer a boat to save his life, but that doesn’t stop him from accepting an assignment to write up a narrowboat holiday. Instead of a change of pace from city life, though, the canal seems dull as ditchwater. Until he crashes into the boat of a half-naked, tattooed, pierced man whose rugged, penniless appearance is at odds with a posh accent.

Still smarting from past betrayal, Robin Hamilton’s “closet” is his narrowboat, his refuge from outrageous, provocative men like Dan. Yet he can’t seem to stop himself from rescuing the hopelessly out-of-place city boy from one scrape after another. Until he finds himself giving in to reluctant attraction, even considering a brief, harmless fling.
 

After all, in less than a week, Dan’s going back to his London diet of casual hook-ups and friends with benefits.