Page 6 of Playboy Pitcher
Snorting, I gesture to the litany of bright tattoos decorating my arms. “I’m a tattoo artist.” My pulse beats faster at the smirk playing on his lips. “Go ahead and say it.”
“Say what?”
“That designing ink isn’t ‘real art,’” I curl my fingers around the words in sloppy air quotes. “That drawing butterflies on drunk girls’ asses is an embarrassment. That tattoos on women are trashy. It’s not like I haven’t heard it all before.”
“Wow. For someone who doesn’t like labels, you’re quick to toss one out.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t know a damn thing about me, Willow. You don’t know what I consider to be art…” His heated gaze slides down my bare arms. “Orsexy.”
No.This isn’t the way this is supposed to go. He can’t flip the script like this. He’s supposed to be like all the others, and I’m supposed to hate him for it.
Taking a deep breath, I avert my gaze. “My mistake.”
Ben leans forward, a subtle challenge in his eyes. “So, tell me. What doyouconsider art?”
I hesitate, unsure of how to answer. Not becausemyopinion isn’t clear, but because no one has ever bothered to ask. “It doesn’t matter what I think,” I say, meeting his steely gaze. “That’s the whole point. What’s sacrilege to one person is poetry to another. True art is defined by the emotion it’s drawn from, not the canvas it’s drawn on.”
He studies me in silence, as if he’s trying to figure me out. It’s pointless, of course, but I can see the wheels turning in his head. Am I telling the truth? Lying my ass off? Playing him for a fool? Maybe a combination of all three?
He’ll never know.
Still, I don’t appreciate being examined under a microscope like a science project, so, breaking eye contact, I tuck my chin to my chest and stare at the floor.
Inquisition over.
Hooking his finger under my chin, Ben lifts my face, his gaze so intense, something slams inside my chest like a wrecking ball. I barely breathe as he traces my jaw, stopping just below my ear to roll a chunk of damp hair between his thumb and forefinger. “And what emotion drew this?”
I stiffen. “Rebellion.” He cocks an eyebrow, so I add, “It forces people to pay attention.”
My jaw clenches.
Damn it, that’s just a little too much truth.
Releasing my hair, he cups the back of my neck. “I paid attention the minute you walked in, Puddles. You’re kind of hard to miss.”
Even with my emotions flip-flopping like a damn see-saw, I roll my eyes. “Is that another line?”
Those full lips quirk. “Maybe. How am I doing now?”
“Eight…point five.” He drifts closer, his mouth dangerously close to mine. Only a breath separates us—me and a complete stranger.This is crazy. “Nine,” I whisper. “Definitely nine.”
His eyes darken, his fingers sinking deeper into my hair. He’s going to kiss me, and what scares me the most is that I want him to.
He leans closer.
Closer.
At the last minute, I panic.
Pulling away, I force a smile. “So, this has been a one-sided show and tell, Ben.”
Shaking his head, he slumps back into his chair. I can tell he’s getting frustrated. He’s pulled out his entire box of tricks, and I’ve shot each one down like a clay pigeon. I half expect him to tell me to fuck off. Instead, he flings his arms out wide. “What would you like to know?”
Shit.I don’t know. I didn’t expect him to still be here.
Flustered, I toss his own words back at him. “What’s your story?”
