Page 37 of Yours Truly

“What changed your mind?” he asks, his bottle almost to his lips as I turn to face him.

“Ivy.”

“You’re really going to let me shade the entire design for your afternoon session?” Ivy asks, her eyes, today lined with bright purple, go wide. “Seriously?”

I shrug, full of nonchalance. “Why wouldn’t I?” With my sunglasses still on, my eyes drop to her breasts, which are more on display than they’ve ever been.

They’re fantastic tits, as I knew they would be, but still, it angers me that I can tell they’re fantastic.

Because if I can, so can other men.

She’s wearing some black bodysuit thing that disappears into her skirt. Her very fucking short skirt, I might add. Her legs, while covered in tights, peek through the tears in the fabric, revealing velvety unmarked flesh on one and loads of ink on the other.

Fuck, she’s hot.

With combat boots on her feet and her jet-black hair down around her face, she’s a wet dream in the flesh, I swear.

“You know,” I start, irritated and jealous at how gorgeous she looks today, at how I want her to be gorgeous for me, and me only. Except, I treat her like shit and am almost never open with her about anything, so would she ever want me back? “Acting surprised that I’m involving you in so much work tells me you’re insecure about your skills.”

I flip my sunglasses up; though I haven’t got my fill of her, I’m also not the kind of asshole who wears shades indoors all day, either. Fuck that guy.

“If you don’t want to shade the American flag?—”

“I want to,” she snaps, the excitement and happiness she held just a moment ago now in pieces on the floor. “I’m not insecure, Trace,” she hisses, the long slither of the C in my name making my cock stir. “You’re just an asshole and I was surprised you were being nice.”

“I wasn’t bein’ nice,” I say, reaching for the arm on the coffee pot behind the desk. I’ve been here on time for two weeks straight, I might add. Haven’t touched a drop of booze for that long, either. “You’re an apprentice,” I point at her, and her anger grows. “I'm,” I hook a thumb to my chest, and she goes fire engine red, “here to teach you. Part of teaching is hands-on.”

I’d like to get my fucking grubby hands all over that young, delicious little body. I’d tear those tights off, shove that skirt up her hips and rut my way inside of her all while she tore her vocal cords screaming my goddamn name.

“Did I hear you’re shading Trace’s afternoon session?” Connor questions, walking up with his shining white smile. He bugs me. He bugs me because he’s all… fucking… manners and bleached teeth and… drinks water all day and talks about running and watching the news. Fuck this guy and his ideal everything.

Connor looks my way, extending his hand to me. “Morning, Trace. How are ya?”

I’d be better if your teeth were on the floor and my boot was in your ass. Now quit flirting with Ivy. “Solid, man, thanks,” I reply, shaking his hand for the least amount of time that is socially acceptable. “And yeah, she’s shading.” I narrow my eyes at Ivy. “C’mon back and let me watch you make the stencil.”

“Good luck,” Connor tosses at her as we move down the hall toward my station.

I’m shrugging out of my leather jacket when Ivy socks me in the shoulder, her fist tiny but mighty. “I can talk, you know.”

“I’m aware,” I deadpan.

“I could’ve answered Connor.” Her eyes narrow on me in a way that makes me feel exposed. Like she knows that I’m a jealous prick hiding being ego and asshole.

“If you want to talk to Connor so bad, go talk to him,” I growl, loathing how possessive and jealous I sound. I have no claim to those emotions when it comes to Ivy. Yet here I am, balling my fists at my sides as I blink down at her, heart racing, shoulders tense. I want her to want me, not fucking Connor.

Such a bullshit name anyway.

She blinks a few times, slowly, maybe even lazily. Her thick dark lashes hypnotize me, slowing my tachy heart, putting a stop to the anger bubbling in my veins. After what feels like too long, she asks, “You want me to make the stencil now or do you want to look at the piece one more time?”

Her lips are so plump. So perfect. I love that black lipstick she wears. I’d jack off to watching her eat a popsicle. “You’re right,” I say, my voice much hoarser than expected. “I should check the design one more time.”

She reaches out, eyes still on mine, and slides my jacket off my arms the rest of the way. “I’ll hang this up, get us some more coffee and we’ll get going.”

I nod. “Thanks.”

She does what she says, hanging my coat near reception before filling two mugs with piping hot caffeine. I don’t get anything ready while she’s away. I just… watch her. I watch her and imagine how she looks in the first traces of daylight, without her purple eyeliner, black lipstick or ripped tights, her dark hair strewn over a pillow, her partially inked body covered by only a thin sheet.

“Here you go,” she says, her amber scent wrapping my cock as she sinks onto the swivel stool adjacent to mine. With the mug of coffee she poured me in my hand, I sit down next to her and sip as she sifts through my portfolio, finding just what I need.

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