Page 6 of Mine to Tease

My lips part as my eyes finally find his. They’re the most unique gray blue, weirdly similar to the shutters on my house. It’s then that I realize I’ve been staring for far too long, so intently the music once the bane of my existence is now nothing but a low murmur in the background. Quickly, I readjust Brinkley’s positioning in my arms and begin to apologize for my poor manners when he returns my rude behavior by tracing his eyes up and down my body. The hairs on my arms rise in response, and I can feel my cheeks flush. I find myself pressing my knees together and wondering what to make of my body’s response to him. Am I afraid? Uncomfortable? Or something else entirely?

As his light eyes finally find mine again, I snap out of my temporary daze and am met with the same god-awful soundtrack as before and a headache to match. I wince and bring my hand to my temple.

“Um, I’m sorry, what?” I ask, remembering he had said something before.

“I asked if I could help you with anything?” He takes a step toward me then, drawing my attention from my temple back to him. My body goes rigid as he moves closer to me, and it’s all I can do not to take a step back. Only a foot away from me, I get a whiff of his cologne—a warm, spicy fragrance. Mmm, I detect notes of pepper, rum, and tobacco leaf. Maybe even a touch of cinnamon. I love cinnamon. His welcoming scent helps to ease some of the tension his presence creates.

“Oh, um, yes. I think I’m supposed to meet someone here. The landlord,” I say.

“Hmm?” He leans forward, still unable to hear me.

“The landlord!” I yell. Even with him leaning down and me wearing three-inch-heeled boots, I have to stand on my tiptoes for him to hear me. As I do, I find my lips so close to his tattooed neck, I can feel the warmth pulsing off him. Quickly, I lower myself. I’m not used to being so close to a man, especially one not in my detail, especially one that looks like him, and especially while alone.

“Oh, yes, for the unit upstairs,” he says. “He’s not in yet, but you can wait on the couch over there. He shouldn’t be long.” He points toward the leather sofa to my right positioned just beneath the windows.

“Not in? But it’s ten after,” I say, glancing at the clock on the wall toward the back of the room. “That’s not very professional,” I mumble to myself as I move toward the sofa. Although, at least I know I’m in the right place. And the upstairs will have access to the beautiful balcony, which will be nice. “Oh, and can we do something about this music?” I call out as the tattooed man makes his way to the back of the shop. He spins around, his dark brows raised as if to ask me to repeat myself. “The music,” I say once more, waving my hand around as if it’s a tangible object floating in the space between us. It certainly feels like it.

“Oh, no,” he says, shaking his head.

“Really? That’s it? Just, no.” I find it impossible to keep my composure as he denies my request.

“Yeah, the boss is the only one who can adjust the music,” he says. Without a second glance, he continues toward the back of the building, disappearing into some office. Hmm. Well, who the Hell is he then? There’s no one else here—no workers, no customers. The manager maybe? Whatever.

I plop down on the couch, already exhausted. My arm aches from holding Brinkley so tightly, nevertheless, I keep him in my arms to keep his ears covered since dogs have even greater hearing than humans. If this is painful for me, it’s excruciating for him. My poor baby.

I give the space another once-over to distract myself. I’ve never been in a tattoo parlor before, but this one seems cleaner than I guess I would’ve expected. Though, the thought of seeing needles in use every time I walk through the front door gives me anxiety. Not to mention, the clientele. If that guy is any indication of the people who frequent this place, this might not be the best location for my boutique. What was Aidan thinking? He had to have known about this place.

I do my best to calm my anxiety, reminding myself that I had similar thoughts about my cottage yesterday and everything turned out fine. This will be okay too. I’ll buy some earplugs and make it work. “Won’t we, Brinkley?” I say, although I know he can’t hear me. I take a deep breath and spend the next ten minutes softly stroking Brinkley’s fur, both to calm him down and myself. Just as I’m about to give up hope, the same man from earlier appears from the office in the back. This time he wears glasses and holds a slip of paper. What the?

As he approaches me, I can’t keep the confusion from distorting my features. I feel my brows furrow and my lips part. Surely, he’s not… As he reaches me, he extends his hand. “Damon Dupont, tattooist and owner of Only Black Ink and of this building. It’s nice to meet you, Anastasia.” You’ve got to be kidding me.

As rage bubbles inside me, I push myself up, ignoring his hand, and lay into him with as much ferocity as I would my brother. “Are you kidding me? You are not Clark Kent and I’m not Lois Lane. I know it’s you, you asshole! How dare you leave me here, not only waiting but writhing in agony over this trash music. And you could’ve turned it down. You, you…” I find myself running out of words and energy as the music still blares around us. Perhaps I shouldn’t speak to my landlord this way. I mean, I’ve never had one before so I’m not exactly sure how to speak to him, but I’m pretty sure this isn’t it. Still, he does nothing but retract his hand, take off his glasses, and smile. It’s weird. The way it lifts his eyes, his smile makes him look more devious and dangerous than before. I shrug my shoulders and brush my long curls away from my face. I’m hot, frustrated, and just ready to get upstairs where it’s, hopefully, quieter. “Can we just get on with it?” I ask. Not waiting for a response, I move past him toward the stairwell.

7

As Anastasia storms past me, I follow her lead. The way her heels clank against the old, creaky stairs makes her frustration all the more amusing. Writhing in agony? Clearly, this girl knows nothing of actual physical pain. That, or she’s just an expert at being dramatic. I can’t help but laugh as I replay her fiery outburst. It didn’t take much to get under her skin. Though, I’ve got to admit, I like how she let me have it rather than stewing in hurt feelings. The way her cheeks turn red when she’s angry. The way her brows furrow. The way she stands on her tiptoes and pokes her chest out as if to make herself seem bigger and scarier. I don’t even know if she realizes she does it. I look forward to more of her little outbursts right up until the moment she packs her bags and boards her private jet to somewhere other than here.

As my laughter ceases and I lift my head from its view of my feet, I collide with a blur of white, and no, I don’t mean Brinkley.

“Ah!” Anastasia screams, nearly falling as my face connects with the space between her thighs.

“Oh, shit!” I grip on to her to steady her, my hands sliding underneath the thin fabric of her skirt, making their way up her slender thighs all the way to her hips. Mmm, her skin is so soft. Is that caramel I smell? She leans forward then, resting her hand on my shoulder to regain her balance. The quick movement leaves her breasts hanging just above my lips. I’m so distracted, I barely notice Brinkley’s paw crashing into my neck. Instinctively, I run my tongue over my lips, as if preparing to devour her. Our eyes meet—one, two. Fresh saliva coats the inside of my mouth. Her lips part. Though perhaps more in shock than anything else.

As Brinkley fills my ear with a low growl, the trance of her piercing eyes is broken, and I find I still have my hands up her skirt.

“What the Hell is wrong with you?” she yells, pushing away from me with the same hand she just used to balance herself against me. As she does, Brinkley breaks into a symphony of high-pitched yaps. He does his best to compete with the muffled tunes of the music downstairs. I lower my hands to my sides in response. As I do, I realize how tightly I gripped her. I hope I didn’t leave any bruises.

“With me? You’re the one who stopped without a word. Trust me, if I could’ve avoided face-planting your vulva upon meeting you, I would’ve.”

“Vulva? Is your research of the female body that extensive that you feel the need to annoyingly identify the individual parts?” Her cheeks blush an even deeper shade of red as the words spew from her. This time I find it spreading down her neck and chest. Even her hands, which she waves dramatically as she speaks, are tinged pink. I like seeing her flustered, and as her protector, I like that she can’t hide her emotions from me. Her body gives her away too easily.

“Kind of,” I admit, shrugging my shoulders. At that, Anastasia appears to fight back a slew of insults as she presses her lips tightly together. She drops her free hand to her side, and lifts her eyes to the ceiling above us. As she does, Brinkley finishes up his verbal assault and finally shuts up. Though his beady little glare still remains relentlessly pointed at me. Trust me, the feeling is mutual.

I look between Brinkley and Anastasia as she calms herself down. I can sense her overwhelm, and even though that is precisely my goal here, that doesn’t extend to making her feel uncomfortable in a sexual sense. If she is a virgin, like her brother believes her to be, then she’s not used to having a man’s face anywhere near that part of her body or a man’s hands on her bare thighs. Maybe it’s too much for her.

“Look, I’m sorry,” I say. “What just happened was a complete accident, and despite me not being thrilled about this arrangement, I’d never intentionally do anything to make you feel physically uncomfortable.” Okay, that’s a lie. “Well, at least, in the sexual sense. I’m an asshole but I’m not a predator.” Also a lie, but not in this context.

Anastasia looks at me then. Some of the redness in her complexion dissipates. “You were laughing at me. Though, suddenly, that seems less important.”

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