Page 10 of London Inked Boys: The Complete Trilogy
“Well, there’s no point in me going alone when we’re both going to the same place.”
“No, I guess not.”
I stand, staring at him, not wanting to step away from this intimidating and yet somehow fascinating guy on a bike.
“Tess,” he says.
“Yes?”
“You’re gonna be late.” He nods over my shoulder to the modern, impersonal building behind me.
“Oh, shoot. Yes, I am. Okay, thanks.”
Flustered, just as I’ve been from the moment I woke up, I turn and run into the building, leaving Art waiting on his bike.
7
ART
What the hell was I thinking?
I’ve just driven my new landlady to a meeting with a solicitor, which I assume has something to do with the fact she’s taking over the property I rent. The building is hers anyway, so why the fuck did I think I needed to help her along? She owns the shop and is now sleeping in my bed, and here I am ferrying her around the city. She should be arch enemy number one, to be avoided at all costs, not sitting on the back of my bike, with her arms wrapped tightly around my waist, the soft mounds of her tits pressing into my back. I was conscious of her body against mine every single second of that ride, so much so, I struggled to concentrate on the road. And now here I am, hanging around, waiting for her.
Do I want her? My cock stirs in my jeans. Fuck. Yes, the thought of tearing off that prim-and-proper white shirt to get my hands on the curvy tits beneath is enough to get me hard. I never had an American woman before. A couple of Australians and a blonde, crazy Canadian girl once, but never American. It isn’t just about getting some foreign pussy, though. Something about her beguiles me, fascinates me. There’s more to her than the big dark eyes and stupidly kissable mouth. Her size makesa protectiveness towards her rise up inside me, even though I know she’s a fully-grown woman who not only owns property, but who travelled half way across the world to start a new life, alone.
I can’t touch her, even if she let me. Things are already messy, and I don’t need for it to get messier. Besides, I clocked the way she’s been looking at me, and the bike, as though she’s worried I might do something crazy at any moment. That look softens occasionally—like last night, when she found my sketch pad, or just now when she’d been in a bit of a daze after getting off the bike. I love the way she looks at me in those moments, as though we share a secret no one else knows.
Within half an hour, she emerges from the building, trotting down the steps in her heeled boots, her dark hair swinging down her back. She clutches paperwork to her chest, and I can’t help but smile at the sight of her. She notices me and returns the expression, though something about it looks forced.
My stomach turns over uneasily. It’s stupid me being here, waiting for her. She’s so conservative. She probably looks at me and sees a total hooligan.
I’ve never had any trouble picking up women I wanted in the past, but I always got different vibes from those women than I do from Tess. They’d openly flirted, pressing themselves up against me, touching me whenever they could, on the arm or leg, or finding excuses to hug me. We’d never needed to do any dancing around each other. But I don’t feel I could do that with Tess. Is it simply because she’s my landlady, and we have business between us?
I’m not sure, but I know I fancy her, even if fucking her is out of the question. I’ll have to be content with my fantasies of what her tits look like beneath that buttoned up white shirt, and how tight and hot her pussy would feel if I pushed my dick inside her. I squeeze my eyes shut and glance away, trying to dispelthe images flooding my brain and causing my cock to harden further. I have to stop thinking about her that way. She’s my landlady. Nothing more.
Tess comes to a stop beside the bike. “I told you that you didn’t need to wait.”
I shrug. “I know. You getting on, or what?”
She presses a smile between her lips. “I had to sign the lease contract—the one you’ve already signed.”
I eye her curiously. “Yeah, so?”
“You had to write your full name beneath your signature.”
I lift my eyebrows. “And?”
“Your name isn’t really Art, is it?”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It’s Arthur,” she fills in with delight. “Arthur Fletcher. You have a seriously old-fashioned, British name.”
I smirk. “Yeah, it is. But don’t go around telling everyone. You’ll ruin my street cred.”
“It’ll be our little secret,” she says, slipping onto the bike behind me.
I find myself hiding a smile of my own. I like the idea of us having a secret.
