Page 7 of Immortal Bastard

“I prefer the truth.”

“Right…” She pulled out her phone to show him her Instagram page. “Is your farm on The Gram?”

His frown deepened.

“Let me guess, you’re off the grid.”

“Our farm is very private, yes.”

He was really sticking to the lie. She turned her attention toward locking him in as a client. “Do you have any ink?” When he looked at her in confusion, she clarified, “Tattoos.”

“I do not.”

The thought of working on such a perfect canvas filled her with inspiration. Pictures of this guy’s body on her page would get serious traffic. Just the glimpse of his forearms peeking out from under his cuffed sleeves told her his body was a chiseled work of art—combined with her talent, she could make him a total masterpiece.

“Here’s some of my work.” She scrolled slowly, offering her phone to him, but he made no move to take it.

He arched an eyebrow and slipped her business card into his pocket. “You paint tattoos on strangers’ bodies?”

“I use instruments a little tougher than paintbrushes.”

His gaze coasted over the stars wrapped around her hand, the fresh red thread tied at her wrist, the leopard print traveling up the curve of her shoulder, and the little devil sitting on her other one. “You have so many,” he said, merely making an honest observation.

“Did you ever think about getting any?”

His lips parted but he hesitated. His answer faded as he asked, “You said your shop’s nearby?”

“Yup, right down the block.” Was he interested? “I have some openings next week if you—”

“I’ll be gone by then.”

“Oh. Well, I could probably squeeze you in—”

“Tonight.”

His insistence surprised her. “Tonight?”

“Yes. You’ll take me there now.”

“It’s after hours.” Was this really happening? Her recent bout of poverty turned her into an instant capitalist. “I’d have to charge—”

“I’ll pay whatever the fee. But we should go now. I’m running out of time.”

His sense of urgency motivated her more than anything else. She chugged the last of her beer and slid the empty glass onto the bar. “Let’s go.”

Her body tingled as he followed her toward the exit. Each time she looked back, her gaze crawled over his impeccable build.

As they walked, her mind crunched numbers, wondering how much she could get away with charging him on some late-night art. Being an entrepreneur meant she had to drive her business like it was stolen, so her mind was on money first, but once she took care of that, she planned to focus on pleasure.

The thought of touching his bare skin sent her into a tailspin. A kaleidoscope of kinky images ran through her head and hardened her nipples as his warm palm pressed into her lower back. His more than six-foot frame towered over her.

She rarely fucked men impetuously, but this guy broke the laws of the ordinary, so she found herself making extraordinary decisions no matter how reckless. Maybe that was part of the lure. There was something undeniably dangerous about him, and she wanted to find out what.

They walked in silence, the cool night air stripping away any remnants of the stagnant humidity of the club. His steps measured one for every three clicks of her Mary Jane’s. The weight of his hand burned through the back of her dress, his fingers wide enough to span her waist.

Desire swirled with anticipation in her belly. The quiet ones were always the wild ones. “Do you have an idea about what kind of tattoo you want?”

He didn’t answer right away. “Do you work with a lot of male clients?”

---