Page 209 of The Trouble With Bad Boys

I finish the design and am happy with how it looks. However, when Lincoln shifts his arm, the lines become distorted, and the design doesn’t look how I want. “Ugh, what did I do wrong?”

Lincoln looks down with a smirk. “You didn’t position my arm properly. It works better when the client lies down with the arm stretched out, palm up.” He lies his arm on the desk and stretches it out flat. “See the difference?”

I study the shape his arm makes this way as opposed to how it looked before. “Right. Gotcha. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“The positioning of the body is important for two reasons. The first, as you can see,”—he traces his finger down the length of his bicep while my eyes greedily follow the action—“so the design flows properly with the skin and the muscles, but also so the client is comfortable and can hold the position for a long period. Especially when you’re doing sizable pieces.” He grins at me with a raised brow. “I didn’t say anything because I wanted you to learn this lesson in a way you’d remember.”

“Makes sense. Thanks for doing this.” I wave at this arm.

“Your design,”—he taps my drawing—“will work perfectly once you consider the best way to position each body part.”

“Linc, your client’s here,” Ken calls from the hallway.

Lincoln turns toward his voice. “Be out in a sec.”

I wave at his arm. “Do you want me to clean that off?”

“Nah, I like having your work on me. I may even get you to tattoo something similar when you’re ready.”

The muscle in my chest makes a sudden departure, landing in my throat. “Really? You’d want my work on your body.” His beautiful body.

His eyebrows shoot up. “Why do you sound surprised? You have to know by now I’m a fan of your work.” I practically feel like I’m glowing from the inside out because of his praise. He squeezes my shoulder as he stands. “Come on, I’ll show you what I mean with my next client while I do a cover-up of an ex-girlfriend’s name on the back of his arm.”

Fourteen

Lincoln

I wince when I look in the mirror. I was distracted last night and didn’t do myself any favors. I still won, but these fucking bruises are going to be a bitch for the next week or so.

Do you want to take a guess at what’s been distracting me?

I bet you’ll figure it out if you think back to my conversation with my employee on her porch fifteen days ago.

I swear she’s been doing everything in her power to tempt me since I told her I’d keep my hands to myself.

It’s been fucking torture.

My job used to be my sanctuary; now it’s hell.

She’s everywhere!

Her seductive curves have even infiltrated my dreams and I wake up with my cock in hand more than I don’t, and I swear I can still taste her on my tongue. And let’s not talk about the mammoth effort it took to keep myself in check when she was drawing a test tattoo on my bicep. The temptation to kiss her almost won out.

Almost.

“Morning, boss,” she calls as she breezes through the door.

And that’s another thing. She’s taken to calling me boss in that sexy raspy voice of hers and doesn’t that do something to me. I groan under my breath and step out of the bathroom and straight into her lingering coconut scent.

Jesus. Can’t a guy catch a break?

“Morning,” I grunt, then head to the coffee machine. I make quick work of our coffee, then drop hers at the reception desk.

She looks up at me absently. “Thank you.” Her eyes widen when she sees my face and her small hand reaches up. I flinch away and her brows dip. “Tell me the other guy came off worse than you.”

I smirk. “The other guy came off worse than me. I was a little distracted, but got my shit under control and laid him flat.” All it took was for him to tell me he fucked my little sister last night and he was done, not that he realized the gravity of what he said.

She tsks me and steps away. My fighting doesn’t impress her like it does most other women, and I find it intriguing. A lot of women find the bad boy—or who they perceive to be a bad boy—appealing.

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