Page 89 of Any Means Necessary

Tossing my suit coat onto the bed, my fingers make quick work of the buttons down my shirt until I’m able to pull it off. Getting out of my stuffy suit is always a relief—especially after a work trip.

It’s still early but I want nothing more than to climb into bed with Lexie. It didn’t take much persuading to convince her to join me after dinner when we got back to the penthouse not too long ago. Columbia was a short but productive trip. I still have some loose ends to tie up for the Harris job, but that can wait until tomorrow. Now that I’m home, I’m ready to indulge in some peace.

Lexie sits cross legged on the bed, playing with the buttons down her silky pajama top. Her eyes move over me, a thoughtful look on her freshly-washed face.

“What do your tattoos mean? Why are only some of them in color when the rest are black and white?” Her curious question catches me off guard, though I don’t show it. No one’s ever noticed the difference of the images on my skin before.

My pretty pink nurse, so smart.

“Truth?” I ask, raising my eyebrows in question. Lexie pauses to consider for a split second before she nods, her eyes taking their time to look at each image woven together up both of my arms and spread out over my chest before scattering down my ribs and torso. Every inch of my skin that her eyes touch burns under her gaze.

“Truth,” she repeats. Unbuckling my belt, my fingers work to unbutton my pants. “What are you doing?” Lexie asks, eyes following the movement of my hands. I shove my pants to the floor and kick them to the side, leaving just my black boxer briefs.

“If I’m going to tell you about my tattoos, you need to see all of them,” I say, indicating the tattoos on my thighs ending several inches above my knees. It’s not a lie, but I also want those lovely eyes on all of me. Her fair skin can’t hide her blush, but she makes no attempt to look away.

“None of them are visible under your everyday clothes,” she points out. Clever girl.

“You like staring at my body, Dewdrop?”

“Am I wrong?”

“I do that on purpose.” My body tenses when Lexie slides off the bed and steps closer to inspect my ink more closely.

“You do everything on purpose,” she murmurs to herself. “Clark Kent’s glasses.”

“Clark Kent?”

“Yeah, you know, like in Superman. It’s just something I thought the night we first met. When you’re wearing a suit, you could be almost anyone on wall street. Well, maybe not just anyone.” Her eyes flicker up to mine. “It’s always felt like your camouflage or a disguise. As soon as the suit coat comes off and your sleeves are rolled up you catch a glimpse of who you really are.”

“I’m no hero, Dewdrop.”

“I know,” she says it so certainly. And she does, she knows me.

Standing here, I suddenly feel naked. Exposed. I’ve never felt such vulnerability before, and I’m suddenly fighting the intense urge to end this. Lexie knows me, she sees me like I’ve never been seen before. It opens me to weakness. I should see her as a liability, but I can’t help but long for her attention. I fucking yearn for her.

Christ.

Her eyes move across my skin, the admiration for the artwork written across her face. My tattoo artist, Gage, is a master at his craft.

I stand completely still, a statue she’s admiring in great detail as I stare down at the top of her pretty blonde head. Her hand lifts to brush gentle fingertips over the Celtic knot colored in red in the center of my chest. My muscles jump under her touch, lust surging.

Fuck.

Lexie doesn’t even realize what she’s doing to me right now, her attention solely focused on the story my skin tells. She looks to me to translate it. My eyes track her as I stand in place, barely breathing. Each breath I take is filled with the sweet citrus scent that’s grown to be a part of her. “What’s this one? It’s beautiful.”

Nothing about me has ever been referred to as beautiful before, it fills me with a foreign warmth. Her eyes flicker up to mine and it takes my brain a second to remember her question.

“The triquetra is a Celtic symbol for family. I’m Irish on my mom’s side. The roots of her culture run deep.”

She nods in understanding, her observant eyes taking in the details on my chest. Her gaze moves from the triquetra to the Phoenix on my ribs. I can see her clever mind connecting the dots.

“The tattoos in color are significant.”

“Yes.”

“How many do you have?”

“Too many to bother counting.”

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