Three Dirty Secrets (Blindfold Club #4) (5 page)

Did he think he was going to tell me what I liked? Because if so, that wasn’t going to work out so well for him. Abruptly the pen ceased, and as he stood back I got my first look. The circular pattern was reminiscent of a stained glass window. It was simple, yet striking.

“It’s pretty, but I don’t get it.”

The late afternoon sunlight from the front window angled across his face, lighting up the ends of the whiskers forming on his jawline. My breath caught as his warm gaze connected with mine.

“The armrest,” he said, handing my phone back to me. “It’s a mandala.” I stared at him, telling him I didn’t have a clue what that meant. “It’s like a geometric interpretation of the universe.”

My gaze drifted down to the screen and there it was. Black iron curled around the side of the bench. In the center was a round, simplistic shape that mimicked a sunflower with fat petals. Silas’s drawing was more modern and embellished, but the inspiration was undeniable.

My voice fell to a hush. “I love it.”

“Yeah?” He smiled genuinely. “Me too.”

My heart thudded in my chest, each thump sharper than the last. It was as if it hadn’t been working for a while and was trying to restart itself. Or perhaps break free from the ice.

The sketch was torn from the book and passed to me. “Make sure it’s what you want.”

My gaze studied the details of the decorative symbol, thrilled at how quickly he’d crafted it and how perfectly it worked. Pleasantly vague on the surface, but the meaning buried beneath. A secret, covering another secret.

And I knew exactly what I wanted. It wasn’t just the design. If this enormous, stunning man wanted to fuck me in the middle of his art gallery, I’d probably let him. Hard, and fast, and no strings was what I needed after last week. Would this artist’s creativity extend to sex?

All traces of Matt were gone from my life and I was anxious to get what I’d been craving. There wasn’t a wedding ring on Silas’s sexy hands.
Fuck, please be single.

“It’s what I want,” I said, handing the drawing back to him. “It’s perfect.”

He peered at me, gauging my certainty, then glanced out the front window as if in thought. “Okay. Gimme a second, I’ll be right back.”

As he disappeared down the side hallway, I wandered the room and admired his work. I didn’t know shit about art, other than it was subjective, but most of his stuff I liked. I paused, intrigued by a poster-sized canvas layered with different shades of red. It was like two shapes intertwined behind fuzzy glass.

“You like that one?” Footsteps approached and a huge shadow fell on the wall before me.

“What are they doing?” I asked. These shapes in the red fog were people . . . dancing?

His voice was light and curious. “What do you think?”

“Are you going to say my answer is a reflection of what I want to see? Because, honestly, it sort of looks like they’re fucking.”

He laughed, and it echoed beneath the vaulted ceiling. “If that’s true, don’t worry. I see it too.”

I glanced up at him, and the moment our gazes met I almost burst into flames. I fought back the urge to tear my clothes off and climb on him. An expression lingered on his face that said he’d be okay with it.

The tension was thick and it seemed neither of us could find words.

Finally, he spoke. “What do you think your boyfriend would see in my painting?”

“Pardon me?”

“I’m asking about your boyfriend.” His voice was casual. “It’s because I’m curious if you have one, but I’m too subtle to ask.”

My smile leaked out before I could play it cool. “Oh, I see.” A warm tingle built at the base of my spine. “I don’t know. I don’t have a boyfriend. My last one lacked your . . . subtlety.” I noticed the jacket and helmet in his hands. He’d stowed his helmet on the bike. “Who’s that for?”

His fingers drummed on the hard shell. “You, if you’re up for it. My friend’s tattoo place is in Lakeview.”

The mere thought of climbing onto the bike and wrapping my arms around his waist sent heat blasting through me. My knees pinched together. “You can’t tattoo here?”

“No, I don’t have any of the equipment. I used to work out of my friend’s shop when I needed steady pay, but now I only do ink as a favor. I called him and he said we could come by.”

“Favor,” I repeated.

Silas thrust the helmet at me. “Yeah. Joseph gave me a heads up you might call.”

I stared at the black plastic and foam that would protect my brain if my hands wandered and made Silas crash, which I had serious concerns about.

“You nervous about riding on a motorcycle?” His grin melted my underwear. “I promise I’ll go slow.”

No, that wasn’t what I wanted. Needles might turn my stomach inside-out, but a motorcycle was something I could handle. I pulled the helmet from his hands, headed toward the front door, and hoped he couldn’t hear the excitement that tinged my voice. “Let’s go.”

Chapter

FOUR

Silas’s motorcycle was all chrome and glossy black with a large front wheel. It was a throwback, cruiser style, but aggressive and reeked of testosterone. I tucked my head into the spare helmet as Silas straddled the bike and donned his. The throaty roar of the engine drowned out the jitters in my head about what was going to happen. His visor was up and the whites of his eyes stood out in the shadow, then his head ticked back, gesturing for me to get on.

Fuck, he didn’t have to tell me twice.

His shoulder was a rock as I steadied my hand on it, hoisting my leg over the bike and settling down on the tiny leather cushion. There wasn’t much room left for me, given his size, which meant I’d have to get close. Mmmm, no issue there.

Both of his hands were on the handlebars, and it was clear he was waiting. I slid my ass closer until my body was pressed against his, my breasts flattened against his broad back and my crotch fitted tight to him. Was this what it was like for teenage boys? To be so goddamn horny you could barely function?

I slipped my hands around his waist and felt his rib cage expand as he took a deep breath. A smile teased my lips at his reaction, which he couldn’t see.

His muffled voice rang out. “You ready?”

“Yeah.”

His hand came off the bike, cinched one of my arms tighter, and slapped his visor down. We jerked away from the curb and were off.

The anxiety-inducing tattoo process was barely a thought. Riding on the back of the bike with one hand hanging onto his belt and the other inside his jacket, splayed on his chest, was like eating dessert before dinner. Once we got going, the September air was chilly. The fitted t-shirt and jeans I had on only gave me some protection, and I curled closer to Silas.

It was more physical contact than I’d had with the opposite sex in weeks. It was made all the better when we came to a stop at a light and his calloused hand rested gently on top of mine.

“I should have given you my jacket,” he yelled over the engine. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” It wasn’t a lie. I was happily cold, burrowed against him. Was that his real intention, to ‘forget’ the jacket and force me to snuggle close? If so, I had no problem with it. I loved the excuse to touch him. Besides, his hand on mine made me warm inside.

Traffic wasn’t too bad, and true to his word, Silas didn’t drive recklessly or fast. I was in no hurry to get there or for the ride to be over. Was it the same for him?

Things got interesting when we stopped at a long light, and my hand slid to rest on top of his thigh. Beneath the denim, the muscle tightened. I couldn’t help it. My sex-starved body stole command from my brain, and my fingernails raked up his thigh, narrowly grazing just to side of his fly.

The groan was barely discernable. “Regan.” His helmet swung my direction. “What was that about?”

“I’m interested in you, but I’m too subtle to tell you outright.”

His shoulders lifted as if he chuckled. “Oh, yeah?” He shifted on the bike, adjusting. “Message received.”

The light flipped to green.

Arriving at the tattoo shop was a cold shower. Most of the lust for Silas washed away and was replaced with anxiety. My hands retreated from him as he shut off the bike and straightened in the seat, then pulled the helmet from his head.

I did the same and stared at the thick cord of neck before me. He turned to the side, giving me a view of his perfect profile, and the lingering desire flared.

“I can’t get off until you do,” he said.

He clearly hadn’t meant it sexually, but my dirty mind went there. “I hope that’s true,” I said.

There was a sharp intake of breath from him. Was I coming on strong? Yeah. But I didn’t fucking care. I was tired of not getting what I wanted. When I stepped off the bike, he peered at me, and time slowed to a halt.

Holy shit. Holy fuck.

The look of pure desire, of total want, the one I hadn’t seen from a man in months, was etched on every inch of Silas’s face. Lust . . .
for me
. My breath lodged in my chest as he rose up off the motorcycle until he loomed overhead.

“Come on.” His deep voice was quiet, but strong. “This won’t take that long. Then I can give you a ride . . . back.”

It dripped with innuendo and had me grinning.

The exterior of the tattoo shop mimicked a retro pump station. Hand lettering in the windows boasted ink and piercings, and the OPEN neon sign glowed in the building’s late afternoon shadows. Silas held the door for me and I went through.

The large room was partitioned off with half walls. Like Silas’s bike, it was mostly black and chrome, but here there were a few red accents. Open velvet curtains, the shade of blood, hung from the ceiling, and I assumed they would allow each tattoo bay privacy when needed.

“We’re at the back, on the left,” Silas said.

The place was mostly empty. An artist who seemed to be covered with tattoos worked on a woman’s calf, and the needle hummed quietly. It could just be heard over the rock music playing in the background. The artist nodded to Silas, but didn’t stop his work.

Cold dread lined my stomach, and I marched toward my doom at the back of the space. A black chair waited there and looked like a modified version of what you’d find at a dentist’s office. My feet refused to move. My stop was so abrupt, Silas slammed into me and almost knocked me over.

“Whoa, you okay?” His large hand clamped on my bicep, steadying me as much as he was himself.

“I don’t think I can do this.” The chair, the buzzing from two stalls over . . . the word
nope
looped over and over again in my head.

The hand on my arm was surprisingly firm. “Sure you can.”

His eyes were pale blue, almost a silver color, and I was too disoriented by them to realize he was guiding me into the stall until the backs of my knees hit the side of the chair.

And his hand was still on me, his palm touching the bare skin where the sleeve of my t-shirt stopped. Goddamnit. The hair on my arm lifted in goosebumps. I fractured in two. Nerves made me want to bolt, desire made me want to stay. Then his hand was gone.

Rings rattled on the line as Silas drew the wraparound curtain closed. The overhead lights were still bright, but it felt secluded.
Intimate
. When we were completely hidden, his hands rested on his hips.

“You’ll have to take off your shirt.” His voice sounded different. Tight.

I swallowed thickly. I’d known this was coming. I’d hoped the tattoo artist wasn’t too skeevy, but now I almost wished for it. Skeevy I could handle. My discomfort at a leering look could distract from my discomfort while ink was layered into my skin.

Fuck it. I would not let fear rule me, and besides—other than the scar, I didn’t have anything to be ashamed of. I worked hard at the gym to keep both my athleticism and aesthetics up to par for my job. My fingers grabbed the hem of my t-shirt and stretched it overhead, then folded it and tossed it on the side table.

I’d worn a simple black bra for the occasion. His gaze traveled the curves of my chest, and quickly shifted away like he wanted to be a gentleman.

“Have a seat,” he mumbled, turning his attention to a cabinet. It creaked as he opened it and began pulling out supplies. My heart beat in my throat when I slid into the chair, and the vinyl was cold against my bare skin. The anticipation was agony. Every subtle noise from him as he prepared was louder than gunfire in my ears.

I watched Silas dig the drawing out of his back pocket, examine it, and uncap a marker. He sketched on a piece of transfer paper until he seemed satisfied, then resumed his other prep.

“How bad is it going to hurt?” I asked.

“I’m sure less than whatever made the scar.”

I clenched my teeth. “Yeah, but I didn’t make the decision to get that.”

Black latex gloves were snapped on, and I dug my fingernails into the armrests of the chair.
Don’t run, or this will be worse
. If I ran, every time I’d see the scar, I’d be remind of two failures. I closed my eyes tightly and drew in a deep breath.