‘Ready to try it for real?’ I asked, watching her closely. She nodded. ‘I won’t hurt you, but you’ll feel the force behind it more than before. It will be fast and hard – are you sure you’re ready for that?’ She nodded again. Her pulse thrummed, just under her ear, and I prayed she could do it. I had to know she could. She had to know she could.
I grabbed her shoulders and shoved her down, and one arm shot up over her head, but she couldn’t get the other one under her. She struggled, and I waited for her sign of surrender, but it didn’t come. Instead, she switched arms, pushing the one beneath her above her head and shoving the floor with her free arm, propelling me off.
I lay on my side, amazed and laughing. ‘Shit! You swapped sides on me!’
She smiled, and my gaze swung to her lips.
Mistake.
I told her this is where she’d get up and run, but she didn’t take the hint.
‘Won’t he chase me?’ she asked, and I gave the answer Watts always gave – that most ra**sts don’t want to chase a screaming, fleeing target. They don’t want a challenge. I knew from experience as a guy that Buck probably wasn’t one of these, though I would not say this to her. In all probability, she knew it already.
‘I was supposed to show you your portrait, I think,’ I said, taking her hand as we lay on our sides, facing each other.
In a small, teasing voice she asked, ‘So it won’t seem like you brought me here under completely false pretences?’
I admitted that I wanted her to see the charcoal sketch, but that fact was secondary to what we’d just done. I asked if she felt more confident, and she said, ‘Yes.’
Her hand gripped mine. My thumb lay across her wrist, and I was soothed by the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. The expression in her eyes – the faith and the expectation – was too strong to ignore. I brought my free hand up to her face. ‘I did have one other concealed motive for bringing you here.’ Slowly, carefully, I angled towards her and leaned in, staring into her eyes, measuring her response.
When my lips touched hers, she shut her eyes, kissing me back, parting her lips, inviting me inside. I stroked my tongue across hers, gently. Exploring her mouth was all I wanted to do – sucking her full lower lip, so sweet, and then the upper, my tongue tracing the heart-shaped curve before diving back inside and teasing across her teeth.
She gasped, and I released her hand to tuck her to my shoulder, my hands skimming down to her hips and holding her close. There wasn’t a millimetre of space between us, but I couldn’t get her close enough. I kneaded her hip and she pressed into me while my fingers meandered across the base of her spine.
I felt her hand on the bare skin of my abdomen just before she leaned up on one elbow and asked to see my tattoos.
When I found that she’d unbuttoned my flannel shirt without my notice, I laughed softly and her cheeks flushed a rosy pink. Chucking the shirt, I pulled the thin thermal I’d worn underneath over my head and tossed it aside, too, reclining and letting her eyes and fingers peruse the ink beneath my skin.
My first tattoos – the ones ringing my wrists – were seven years old. I’d added a few since then, but not many since I left home, and nothing at all in the last couple of years. Tattoo artists are like doctors. You have to trust them – not just their skill with the needle, but their ability to read you, personally. To know what you need, and what you don’t. I’d never found anyone I trusted as much as Arianna.
I waited for questions that didn’t come, as if Jacqueline knew they were more than body art to me. As if she knew their significance to me ran deeper than the ink.
Finally, her fingers brushed lightly over the hair trailing below my navel, and I was instantly ready to answer that touch – an answer she might not have meant to invite. I sat up. ‘Your turn, I think.’ I wanted that sweater off. I wanted my fingers roaming over her, exploring.
She frowned. ‘I don’t have any tattoos.’
Big surprise, Jacqueline. I smirked. She had no idea what I meant, and I wasn’t about to explain it bluntly while reclining on my living-room floor. ‘I figured as much. Would you like to see the drawing now?’
The emotions flickering across her face were amazingly readable – confusion in the slightly puckered brow, desire in her dilated eyes. There was a touch of indignation, as well – but I wasn’t sure why. As she reached up and took my hand, her grip secure, one thing was certain. She’d accepted me as the bad boy her friends wanted her to have, and I would be an idiot to fight it.
I led her into my room and turned on a lamp as she examined the room and my wall of sketches. I’d not brought many girls to this apartment, and even fewer to my bed – and I didn’t bother with the lamp when I did. I knew the room by feel – the placement of the bookcases and desk. The night table where I stored drawing pencils and a small sketchpad, glasses for late-night reading or studying, and condoms. Finally, the bed, where all that was required was finding the centre of it. Pitch-black darkness – I led, they followed.
Or we just never left the sofa.
That was not for Jacqueline.
‘These are amazing,’ she murmured, and I waited, watching her eyes scan over the wall, letting her find her sketch, knowing she was hunting for it. When she spotted it, she sat, staring. I lowered myself next to her, all too aware that I was already half undressed.
She turned and watched me, and I had never wanted to read someone’s mind so badly. Your turn, Jacqueline, I thought, wondering how far she’d want me to go. I didn’t want to go one centimetre beyond it. Or stop one centimetre too soon.