Page 26 of Next Level
Flawless skin. Light makeup, again flawless. Dark chocolate brown, almost black hair. Silky olive skin. My mouth waters, wanting to suck on her neck. One of her arms is completely sleeved in intricate, colored tattoos.
I clear my throat. “So, you’re a tattoo artist?”
The waitress sets down two glasses of water, saying she’ll give us a few more minutes.
Cherry grabs her glass, puts in a straw, and takes a long pull from it before saying, “Yeah, been doing it since I was sixteen. But I’ve been drawing all my life.”
She looks at my hands, which are both fully covered. I have tattoos all over my body from my neck down to my fingertips. Seeing her cherry blossoms down her arm has me intrigued and tripping out.
My entire life, I’ve been fascinated with Japanese heritage. I have a sexy Japanese geisha with cherry blossoms on one of my arms.
Could this be a sign?
No. Fuck that.
“You got a man?” I blurt out.
I suddenly have this urge to know everything about her.
She chokes on her drink and begins coughing.
“You don’t beat around the bush, do you?” she says through a coughing fit.
I tilt my head, watching her.
Before I can answer, the waitress comes back. We both give our orders, and once she’s gone, I answer, “No, I’m very straightforward. Plus, I just wanted to know if you needed to check in with someone.”
Now it’s her turn to tilt her head, evaluating me.
“No, I’m too busy and move around a lot. No time,” she answers truthfully.
I take a drink of water, hiding my smirk.
“How does your ol’ lady feel about you being on the road with me?”
I scoff. “I ain’t got no ol’ lady.”
Cherry fires right back, “Samantha’s mom? She isn’t your ol’ lady?”
Her knowledge of ol’ ladies is a good sign that she might know about the biker lifestyle, but we’ll see how far it goes.
“Nah, never had an ol’ lady. Sheismy baby mama, but no one to worry about.”
We both sit there staring at each other with smirks on our faces.
“I like your cherry blossoms,” I announce, changing the subject.
She pulls down her shirt, showing her cleavage and revealing cherry blossoms peeking out of her—fuck me—pink-laced bra. Jesus, she’s got perfectly sized mounds of cleavage.
I choke on my drink.
She giggles.
“Christ. I was talking about the ones on your arm.” I grab a napkin.
She chuckles. “Oh sorry. I thought you were talking about these. I have them all over my body.”
I raise my brow, intrigued. “Oh really? Hmm. We’ll have to compare another time.”
