Page 57 of Red My Lips

“Are you tattooing me right now?” I ask, my voice rough with sleep. I’m still waking up, but the tell-tale stinging proves this isn’t a dream.

“You really do sleep through just about anything,” Gage marvels with a smirk, his eyes focused intently on the skin he’s coloring with ink.

“What the hell are you doing?” I demand, trying to figure out what he’s up to. All I can see is that he’s tattooing over my new martini tattoo before he’s gently but firmly pushing me back down.

“I’m fixing it.”

“You’re fixing it,” I repeat, both demanding and bewildered. What the fuck is happening right now?

“That rat, Dane, couldn’t even get something as simple as a martini right. I can’t believe I let him work at my shop for so long. Your skin deserves better than his shitty work.” Gage’s words are edged with disgust. He wipes the excess ink from my skin and leans back to look over his handiwork. “A work of art.”

“You really think highly of yourself, don’t you?” I ask, barely refraining from rolling my eyes. Gage’s eyes move from my skin to meet mine, pinning me where I lay.

“Not the tattoo,” he rumbles. “You.”

Warmth floods through me from head to toe, pooling between my legs. “Are you done?” I ask. The look in his eyes tells me he’ll never be done with me. “With the tattoo.”

“See for yourself.” Releasing my hip, he allows me to sit up and climb off the bed. The skin of my abdomen is tender as I walk over to the full-length mirror in my living room.

The skin around my tattoo is freshly pink, adding to the contrast of the black design. The outline of the martini glass has been evened out so the lines are saturated and clean while still remaining delicate. In the glass has been added what looks like clear liquid. Floating in the dry martini is a twist of lemon—my favorite drink order. The shape of the lemon peel makes me lean in to get a better look.

Is that what I think it is?

“Is that a G?” I spin on my heel and stalk back into the bedroom. Gage stands by the bed, cleaning up his equipment. “Did you tattoo a G on me?”

The accusation in my voice does nothing to dissuade Gage’s self-satisfied grin. His eyes travel down my body slowly, reveling in every inch until they land heavily on the ink he just branded me with. “I told you I fixed it.”

“You tattooed your initials on my body.”

“Just the one.” His smile turns wolfish—all teeth and heated intent. “For now.” As I saunter closer, his head cocks to one side, and his eyes touch every inch of my naked skin. The look in his eyes tells me he’s making plans, and it sparks something inside me.

“Don’t worry, Menace. Soon, it won’t just be just my initials on your body. You’ll have my entire last name.”

“What if I don’t want to change my name?”

“It’s not an option.”

“And if we break up?”

The air in the room drops several degrees when Gage flashes a predatory smile that’s fully vicious and without humor.

“You’re a part of me, Jill, and I won’t live without you. Ever. There’s no breaking up. The second you even think about leaving me, I’ll have you chained in my basement, where you’ll never get the chance.”

“Hmm,” I feign a contemplative look that has his expression turning vicious, making a teasing smile tug at my lips. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

Stepping outside, it’s a beautiful summer day. Following Gage through the garage into the driveway behind his house, I look at the machine standing in the center of the short driveway. I’ve never been into engines or mufflers. I couldn’t tell you what make or model Gage’s motorcycle is—just that it’s big, black, and crazy sexy.

When Gage told me we’re going to a barbecue his dad is holding with the Chained Saints—and that both of his parents will be there along with his brother, whom I’ve yet to meet—it was a hard sell. But then he mentioned the prime rib, open bar, and Stevie’s world-famous fudge bars to sweeten the pot. I finally agreed under one condition: we take his bike the long way.

“What are you doing?” I ask when Gage walks back inside.

“Grabbing your helmet.” He calls from the garage.

“I don’t need it. Helmets just mess up my makeup and keep me from feeling the wind in my hair.” He emerges holding a helmet that sparkles black cherry in the sunlight, a determination in his eyes.

“You’re wearing a helmet, Jill,” he states. I raise my brows at him.

“Am I?” I ask, but he doesn’t back down.

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