Page 64 of Dukes of Peril

Sy’s eyes soften, fingers tilting my head to inspect the scratch on my cheek. “I’m not claiming responsibility for those chick moves, but they were effective enough. You stood up when you needed to, just like a Duke.” His eyes dart to Remy’s closed door. “You two good now?”

“I think so,” I say, following his gaze. “We will be.”

“Thank fucking Christ.” He looks to the ceiling like he may actually be thanking God. “Not that I think you’ll need it, but I’m next door if you need anything, okay?”

“Okay.” But he’s right. I don’t need a protector in this house. Not anymore.

I tap on Remy’s door, and he calls me to come in. When I push it open, it’s dark inside. It’d be pitch black except for the singular lamp casting a harsh glow on his body. He’s sitting on his tattoo table in a pair of boxer briefs, his shirt and pants stripped off. He leans back on his hands and watches as I shut the door, his head cocked back lazily. It’s a struggle to tear my eyes away from the tendons in his throat, shifting to the table where he keeps his instruments.

They’re all lined up, neat and ready.

“You want to tattoo me?” My stomach plummets at the realization, even though the phantom feeling of his needle ghosts over my skin. The first tattoo he gave me, seared like fire into my shoulder blade, was done in the heat of battle, his body pinning mine to the bed that night at the Hideaway. It’s a tattoo that I’m grateful to be unable to see. The second–the star on my hip–was created in a fog of his own delusion, needing a compass to guide him back to reality. The massive moth on my chest took him weeks, hours beneath the heat of that overhead lamp as his green eyes glowed with laser-like intensity. They might vary in pain and intent, but all of them shared a singular thread of unspeakable intimacy.

I don’t think I’m ready to go there with him just yet.

“Actually,” he says, voice clearer than I’ve heard it in weeks, “I want you to tattoo me.”

I stop short. “You want me towhat?”

“I’m yours,” he explains, tipping his head toward the tattoo gun. “Make your mark. Anywhere you want, anything you want.”

Wringing my hands, I start, “I don’t know…”

“Vinny,” he says, dark eyes capturing mine. “No one’s ever tattooed me before. No girl, not even another guy. This is all mine.” He dips his eyes to his body, to the intricate designs over his chest, arms, torso. “But now it’s yours, too. So go ahead. Pick a spot.”

Reluctantly, I step forward, eyes roving his skin. His chest and arms are pretty covered, and I can’t imagine adding anything to them. “I’m not good at drawing,” I worry as I walk closer, getting a good look at his neck.

He tilts his head, putting his neck on display for me. “Then I’ll draw whatever you want.”

Anxiously, I round the table, realizing now why his back is a wide, muscular swath of unblemished skin. Unthinkingly, I reach out to run my fingertips over his spine, watching as his skin erupts in goosebumps.

“Fresh meat back there.” He twists his head, raising an eyebrow. “Can’t reach it myself. You should take it. Make it yours.”

Shyly, I confess, “I like it like this,” running my palm down his shoulder. Some of the hardest moments during our time apart were watching him do pull-ups by the windows in the living area, just as fascinated by the wiry, shifting muscles as turned on by them.

So I keep going, rounding the other side of the table pensively.

In the end, it’s incredibly obvious. “Lay back,” I decide, watching as he situates himself on the table. I bite my lip, not missing the significance of this. Remy’s where I usually am, laid out for me like a canvas, hands tucked behind his head as he waits, looking as comfortable as I’ve ever seen him.

Until I reach for the waistband of his boxer briefs, tugging them down.

He yanks his arms back down to his sides, abs flexing and tense. “Uh,” he says, suddenly pale. “Shit, yeah, I guess you would want to do it there.” He stiffens as I tug, revealing a soft patch of pubic hair. “Makes sense–dibs and all.” His eyes drop to the slow reveal of his long, half-hard dick, brows crushing inward. “Just your name, right? What’s ‘Lavinia’, like seven letters?” His voice pitches higher and higher, and then chokes off as I peel his boxer briefs down his legs, his green eyes flying wide. “You’re not going to do your last name too, are you? Because it’s not like there are that many Lavinia’s in Forsyth. If you think about it, initials would work just as–”

“Remy,” I say, throwing his underwear aside. “Relax. I’m not going to tattoo your dick.”

His head thumps back, body sagging in relief. “Oh, thankfuck. Not saying I wouldn’t take it like a man, because–”

“Right here,” I say, thumbing a section right between his dick and hip.

“Yeah?” He eyes it curiously, some of the color returning to his face. “Like yours, huh?”

“Yep.” It’s in the same place as my star, but on the opposite side. “So…” I look around, wondering what to do next.

He stretches out, gesturing loosely to the table. “Gloves first, then wipe the skin down,” he instructs, green eyes following me as I ready the area. The sanctity of the routine washes over me. It’s something I’ve never done, but I’ve avidly watched Remy perform dozens of times, both for me and other people. Choosing my ink, adjusting the lamp, seeing the design in my mind and imagining how it might look on the skin.

By the time I’m ready, the heavy tattoo gun clutched in my hand, Remy looks relaxed, eyes hooded as he watches me with a silent intensity. When I pause, hand inching to his cock only to gently prod it toward his other hip, it twitches in interest.

Remy grins. “You remember, right?”

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