Page 21 of London Inked Boys: The Complete Trilogy
“Flawless skin.”
I bite my lower lip, and glance away.
“What about you?” I ask, turning the topic around. “What’s on your bucket list?”
“I don’t have one.”
“What? Everyone has a bucket list!”
“Nope. Not me.”
“Why not?”
He shrugs. “I guess I just want to live in the moment. I want to be happy with what I have now instead of looking forward to the next thing all the time.” He lifts a hand. “Don’t get me wrong, all those things you described sound amazing, and of course I’d do them, too, if the opportunity came up. I just don’t want to spend my life looking forward to doing things, and not appreciating them when they happen.”
I nod, understanding what he means. I take another long drink from my beer.
“So you’re happy with what you have?” I ask him. “The business and everything?”
He nods, but I don’t miss the way his gaze slips from mine. “Sure. I’m doing what I dreamed of. How could I ask for anything more.”
Art sounds confident in what he’s saying, but there’s something about the way he says it that makes me think there’s something more. I’m not about to start prying, however.
We finish our drinks. The alcohol fortifies me, giving me courage I don’t usually possess.
“You’re going to think this is really lame,” I blurt, “but can we get a photo by the fountains. My friends would absolutely die to see it.”
He grins. “Yeah, sure.”
Joining the rest of the tourists, we sit on the edge of the fountain, the water directly behind us. People have thrown coins of multiple currencies into the bottom, perhaps hoping a wish or two would come true. I hold my cell phone out on selfie-mode, trying to get both our faces and the beautiful fountain behind usin the picture. I’m struggling to get both us and the scenery in, however.
“Squeeze in a little,” I tell Art. He does as I instruct, but I still can’t fit everything in. I want my friends back home to see where I am. “Lean back a bit more.”
Art leans back a little too far, and I feel him tip as he loses his balance. His arms pin-wheel, and I turn and reach out to grab him, using the hand not holding the phone.
I snag the front of his t-shirt just as he topples back. The bulk of him is too much for me to hold, but I keep hold of the front of his shirt. It isn’t enough. The shirt gives way, the front tearing in my hands while the rest of Art’s big body falls backward into the water with a splash.
I hold the piece of torn t-shirt in my hand, and then clamp the hand to my mouth to try to hold back my laughter. Art emerges from the fountain, water dripping down his body. His torn shirt flaps open from top to bottom, exposing the squared blocks of his abs and the muscles of his chest. Twin glints of light come from each nipple, and my laughter fades as I realize both nipples are pierced. Both times we’ve had sex, we always managed to stay mostly clothed, so I’ve never seen his bare chest before.
Art is half naked and dripping wet in the middle of Trafalgar Square. Everyone’s looking, and I imagine husbands will be clamping their hands over their wives’ eyes, and mothers will be hiding the faces of small children. Art looks like sex personified, with his tattoos, and piercings, the remainder of his shirt dripping wet, and almost see through as it clings to the muscles of his arms and back.
His eyebrows lift as he sets his sights on me. “You think that’s funny, huh?” Water drips off his dark hair, running down his face, clinging to his eyelashes. There’s teasing behind histone, and I clamp my mouth shut, trying to hold back the grin threatening to break across my face.
“I think you’re looking a little hot yourself, Tess. Maybe you need cooling off, too?”
With every word, he takes a step closer, his powerful thighs pushing through the water. He climbs out of the fountain and approaches me, his arms outstretched. I let out a squeal, feeling like a kid again. I turn, only pretending to get away. I’m more than happy to let Art catch me. His big arms wrap around my waist from behind, his wet torso pressing into my back, dampening my shirt. He lifts me off my feet, and I scream with laughter. I feel a momentary burst of panic, as he swings me around, back toward the fountain, ready to throw me in as well.
But a shout from nearby makes Art pause. “What’s going on over here?”
The voice is authoritative, and we both turn in its direction to see two uniformed police officers watching us.
“People aren’t supposed to swim in the fountains,” the older of the policemen says, pointing to a sign attached to the wall.
“Sorry,” Art replies. “We weren’t exactly swimming.”
“He fell,” I try to explain. “We were trying to take a photo.”
The two officers frown between them, not looking impressed. They’re probably bored with turfing half-drunk tourists out of the fountain on a sunny day.
