Sin and Ink, page 4
I already know the answer to that.
The two words reverberate in the room, and his impossibly long, dense lashes lower. A harsh, serrated breath shudders from between his parted lips. Even before his big body goes rigid, a sickening tightness in the pit of my stomach alerts me that something is wrong. Has changed. Like a ghost suddenly appeared in the room, the temperature seems to drop. But that cold isn’t emanating from an apparition; it’s from Knox.
His lashes lift, and this time when I shiver, it’s not the reaction to lust, but to the ice coating his gaze, chilling the flames there until they’re extinguished. Not even embers remain. This look is all too familiar. And I shrink from it now, just as much as I did then.
“Fuck.” Knox shoves away from me as if I’m the pox gift-wrapped in the clap. I flinch, even though the vicious lash of anger is clearly self-directed. He stalks across the room, thrusting his hands through his hair, completely dislodging the bun I’d loosened. The dark brown and gold strands tumble down, covering his closely shaven sides and falling just below his jaw.
He tips his head back, and if I didn’t know he’d cursed God years ago—two, to be exact—I’d assume he’s praying. But no. From the tortured frown that creases his forehead, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, and the clenched fists next to his thighs, he’s most likely condemning himself to a place the far opposite of heaven.
His obvious shame sends the grit of guilt scraping my skin, leaving nasty scratches behind.
Swallowing back the acidic burn of humiliation scorching my throat, I quickly fix my bra and jerk down my shirt, covering myself. But I still feel naked, exposed. Vulnerable.
This is my fault. I’m so fucking stupid. What was I thinking? Mimicking his gesture, I bury my hands in my hair, tugging on the strands and enjoying the bite of pain. It gives me something to focus on other than how I damn near begged Knox to touch me. Yeah, he might’ve been a complete guy and responded in that moment, but just looking at him now…
I duck my head, unable to continue staring at him. It hurts too much. The ache and mortification of rejection. The horror that he would now see me as a pathetic, needy woman who he almost pity-fucked in his tattoo chair. The sadness that our friendship might be scarred by this. Because he couldn’t have made his regret at putting his mouth on me plainer if he’d branded it on his forehead.
And worse? Worse is my body still hums with unfulfilled need. My nipples are so tight, one touch would buckle my knees. I’m so wet, my panties are probably beyond saving.
I ache.
And I need to get out of here before I do something even crazier. Such as climb him like a jungle gym and plead with him to get me off. To finish what he started the night I watched him come in another woman’s mouth.
Oh, hell yeah, I need to escape this room.
My feet are moving before the message hits my brain. Survival instincts at their finest.
“Eden.”
That gravel-and-sin voice only adds wings to my feet. Please, don’t try to talk to me. Not when I can still feel your tongue curling around my nipple. Please save your apology and “This was a mistake” speech for later. As in, Junevember 56th later.
“Don’t worry, Knox,” I say, forcing a nonchalance that is as false as the wig collection on RuPaul’s Drag Race. I even manage a glance over my shoulder, though it nearly guts me. He hasn’t moved. But the anger and shame are entrenched in every line in his forehead. In the grim set of his mouth. In the darkness of his eyes.
Whipping around, I concentrate on the closed door. On grabbing the knob. Twisting it.
“Don’t worry,” I repeat, unable to block the hurt from leaking into my tone. Even though my mind acknowledges he did us both a favor by pulling away—that going any further with him would’ve been a monumental mistake—my confidence is kicked to hell and back. “This was a mistake, and it’ll never happen again,” I utter the words before he can, trying to salvage some of my pride.
Wrenching the door open, I slip through and close it behind me.
Too bad I can’t shut it on the last half hour.
Fuck.
Where’s that DeLorean when you need it?
Chapter Three
Knox
It’s goddamn Sunday dinner. Not a heavyweight match on a BFC fight card.
Yeah. Then why the hell is my heart pounding like I’m about to enter the ring against a bastard who outweighs me by sixty pounds, has me out-trained, out-matched, out-witted, and totally mind-fucked?
Maybe because that’s a pretty accurate description of any time spent with my mother and Dan, my stepfather.
Heaving a sigh, I push open the door to my black Escalade and step out into the driveway of the Edison Park two-story, single-family home I bought my mom with the check from my first championship fight. Yeah, I was a complete cliché, but getting my mother out of that cramped Bridgeport house that we all grew up in had been my dream when I was a kid. And I’d had the sense Dad would’ve somehow found a way to leave his celestial card game and whatever passed for Guinness up there to come down and slap me upside the head if I hadn’t. I close my eyes at just the thought of the big, boisterous, and tough Irishman who’d raised, disciplined, and loved me until I was fourteen and a fatal heart attack stole John Gordon from us. When Mom met and married Dan Keller three years later, I didn’t hate or resent him. He was—is—an okay guy. He just isn’t my father. Never could be.
Turning around, I stare at my reflection in the window of the truck, going over a mental checklist. Hair pulled back in a short ponytail, beard neat. Mom hates it, but no way in hell am I cutting it. So making it as trim as possible will have to do. A white dress shirt and black pants. Most of my tattoos hidden, except for the one crawling up my neck and the letters on my fingers. I try to conceal everything that might remind Mom of the fighter I was. Remind her of the sport that took her son.
That black hole in my chest expands the tiniest bit. It’s resided there since Connor fell to the mat, lying there so fucking still with a thin line of blood trickling from his nose, and has grown and stretched its tentacles like a virus with each passing day, month, year. At some point, I expect that void of emptiness to consume me.
Part of me is looking forward to that day.
Turning, I slowly head toward the front walk and steps. A breeze ruffles my shirt, cooling my slightly heated skin. Mid-September in Chicago, it’s still warm enough outside where we don’t need jackets. Give it a few more weeks, though, and that’s going to change fast. Better enjoy it now.
As soon as I climb the steps to the postage-stamp-size porch, the door swings open. Simon, my youngest brother, fills the doorway. And I do mean, fills. Just twenty-two years-old, he’s almost as big as Jude and me. At six-feet-four and two-hundred-and-forty-eight pounds, I still stand taller than him by three inches and outweigh him by about twenty pounds. But my little brother is big. And with the same dark blond hair as Jude, and our mom’s blue eyes, he can come across as intimidating. The truth is he’s the kindest and most sensitive of us all. He was seven when our dad died, and we’ve all been protective of him since. Not saying Simon can’t hold his own. He has a slow-burn temper, but piss him off, and he’ll demonstrate he knows how to use those huge fists for more than drawing. Yeah, Simon’s a damn good artist getting his Bachelor of Fine Arts in Studio at SAIC, the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. I couldn’t be prouder of him.
“Excuse me, sir,” he says, frowning. “Who are you? I mean, you look familiar, but we don’t really allow strangers to roll up into our house.”
I snort. “Very funny.”
“No seriously.” He palms either side of the doorway. “Do we know you? You kind of remind me of a guy I know. Big motherfucker—”
“Language,” a voice calls from inside the house. I smirk as Simon grimaces. If our mother had a dollar for every time she warned us about our mouths, she could own a small country.
“A big mofo,” Simon amended with a grin. “Owns a tattoo shop, used to kick a— uh, tail for a living.” He squints, rubbing the stubble on his chin. Unlike Jude and me, he can’t grow a beard for shit. Isn’t stopping him from trying, though. “Yeah, you could pass for him. I mean, you’re a little butt-uglier, but still…”
Sighing, I step forward and slam a palm into his shoulder.
“Ouch, dammit,” he growls, ignoring Mom’s second cursing alert and rubbing the offended spot as I move by him. “You do realize your abnormally large hands—signs of an equally abnormally small brain, by the way—are dangerous to us regular folk?” Grumbling what sounds suspiciously to me like “freakish asshole,” he shuts the front door with an exaggerated scowl.
“I take it this is your way of saying you’ve missed me?” I ask, arching an eyebrow, pausing in the foyer because, if I’m honest, I’m not eager to walk down the hallway that leads to the living room, dining room, and kitchen. To where Mom is cooking. And Eden is no doubt right beside her.
“No,” Simon drawls. “That would be my way of saying where the”—he drops his volume several decibels—“fuck you been?”
“Busy.” I shrug. The last couple of weeks have seen an increase in walk-ins, and I’ve had several sessions scheduled for big pieces. Not to mention the BFC 56 event, hosted by Bellum Fighter Championship, was held in Chicago last week. Several fighters came in the shop for new tattoos. That had been bittersweet. I’d been happy to see them and hang out. But the jagged, raw part of me that refuses to heal throbbed at the reminder that they were still doing what I’d walked away from. “I was going to call you tomorrow anyway. I have a client who wants an original piece. Kyro Men from Star Wars. Or something like that.”
Sometimes Simon draws up art for me when I have certain requests. I’m good, really good, but him? He’s fucking brilliant.
“That’s Kylo Ren, you ignorant peon.” Simon snickers, his eyes gleaming in what I recognize as excitement. Well, that and his rubbing his palms together like a Scooby-Doo villain. “Hell, yeah. I’m down. When do you need it?”
“Wednesday. He’s coming in Thursday to approve it. I’ll give you forty percent of the fee, as usual.” That might seem high, but any tattoo artist knows the art itself is as important as inking it. And Simon should be paid for his work.
“Cool,” he agrees. “I’ll bring it by since I want some more ink.” He grinned. “I’m thinking maybe I could get that hot-as-hell Heaven to do it.”
I roll my eyes. Another thing Simon has in common with Jude and me. Won’t keep his dick in his pants.
“You okay?” He frowns, losing all traces of humor. “You look like shit.”
Another sleepless night. What else is new? Walking my apartment, fucking, drawing, or sitting up watching old Murder, She Wrote reruns are all better than the nightmares. Any day. In the last two years, Jessica Fletcher, a.k.a. J.B. Fletcher, has become my girl.
I shrug in reply to Simon’s question, and his frown deepens.
“Are you two coming in, or do you plan on standing there gossiping like teen girls all night?” Eden, arms crossed and hip cocked, smiles at us from the living room entrance. Well, she does at Simon. Me, she skates over, that smile faltering just the smallest bit when our eyes briefly meet.
It’s a repeat of the last week. The past few days, she’s been her usual open, affectionate self. But there’s been a strain between us. One that didn’t exist before she walked out of my tattoo room after I tasted her body for the first time.
No, that’s not true. There was that night months ago in the shop after closing. There’d been a strain then, too. Then, I thought it’d been one of those periods when memories of Connor drew her into a funk. So, against my better judgement, I’d risked it and touched her. And for a moment, desire had darkened her gaze. For an instant, a fierce, almost excruciating joy had pierced my chest, but then the inescapable truth had slammed into me. She was grieving for her husband—my brother. That arousal that shined in her eyes hadn’t been for me. It’d been for a ghost.
I could’ve touched her, kissed her. Maybe she would’ve let me fuck her against that desk. But the regret that surely would’ve crowded into her eyes afterward would’ve ripped me apart. So I ignored it. Walked away. And I’d been right. Because everything had returned to status quo fairly quickly. Meaning me craving her, and her treating me like her brother-in-law, the eunuch.
But a week ago, in my chair…
Yeah, I fucked up and let the beast slip the chain.
Days later, and I’m still gripping that chain so tight, my palms are torn up to hell. How could I have touched her? My dead brother’s wife. There’s no other woman on this planet more off-limits than her. This insane, selfish need for her was manageable before.
Before she placed that delicate hand on my thigh, only inches from my cock.
Before she lifted her shirt and bared all that silken, dusky skin.
Before she asked me to give her pleasure…and a little pain.
Before I found out for myself the size and shape of her nipple with my tongue.
But now? Now, I’ve spent every damn second warring to not drag her back into my room, stretch her out on my chair, and finish what she invited me to take. Need, hard and ruthless, squeezes my chest, grips my dick. For the hundredth time tonight, I consider turning around, walking out, and not returning. I’ve never backed off from anything in my life—not taking up responsibility for my younger brothers after Dad died; not a fight against the biggest, toughest opponent; not purchasing and running my own business.
Eden has me in full retreat.
Because keeping my hands off her had been hell when she hadn’t twisted and moaned so sweetly, when she hadn’t demanded I kiss her. Now it’s a torture that would make interrogation by the Spanish Inquisition look like a game of Twister.
It’d been that breathless request that had snatched me back to cold, brutal reality. A reality where she was Connor’s wife, and I was the man who’d introduced him to the sport that had cost him his life. A reality where I had no right, where I wasn’t worthy to put my hands—or mouth—on her. A reality where a rage-and-grief-stricken accusation bound me to an oath I can’t break. Not if I don’t want to destroy a relationship that’s already dented and bent, almost beyond repair.
My reality.
“Well, I don’t know.” Simon holds his hands up, pretending to study them. “Knox did promise to paint my nails, sooo…”
She laughs in the way that’s strictly hers—a loud, joyous crack that sounds like thunder breaking across the sky. Connor used to say her laughter was God snorting. I’m not anywhere near that damn poetic. But yeah, my little brother might’ve had something there.
Simon strides down the hall and swoops Eden up in a bear hug, her feet dangling above the floor. There’s nothing sexual about the embrace, yet as her giggles reach me, I still want to tear down there, grab her out of his arms, and pull her into mine.
Instead, I wait until they both disappear into the living room. Only then do I follow. Taking my time. Preparing myself for the evening ahead. Between pretending everything is normal between Eden and me, bearing Mom’s silent accusation and disappointment, and bracing for Eden’s upcoming announcement, I wish I had something stronger than the wine served at every Sunday dinner.
Sighing, I scrub a hand down my face, my beard scratching my palm. As always, I pause and study the framed photograph of Dad and me in front of Wrigley Field when I was thirteen. And as always, a tight fist squeezes my heart as his big, booming laughter from that day faintly echoes in my head. It’s one of my happiest memories. Dad was a diehard Cubs fan, and we never missed one season opener. I haven’t been to a game since he died.
This picture used to hang on the wall at the old house. It says something about Dan that he allows photos of his wife’s first husband to be displayed so prominently. He’s a good man. I can admit that, even though we’ve never been close.
“Dinner’s ready,” Mom calls, stepping out of the kitchen entrance. She catches sight of me, and after a beat of silence, nods. “Knox. I didn’t think you were coming today.”
Nothing in her voice telegraphs if she’s happy I showed up or wished I’d stayed away. There’d been a time when her face would’ve reflected every emotion tumbling inside her. Even Dad’s unexpected death hadn’t managed to douse her light, steal her joy. Dimmed it for a while, but hadn’t snuffed it out.
Connor’s death had accomplished that.
I missed the mother who laughed easily, teased with a soft smile, loved with a big heart instead of a shattered one. I haven’t seen that version of her in two years, and I mourn it just as much as I grieve for my brother.
“I hope it’s okay,” I reply. Once, that statement would’ve been unnecessary. And I would’ve received a pop for even uttering it.
“Of course,” she says and, turning, disappears into the kitchen.
Slowly, I exhale. This is going to be a long evening.
An hour later, seated at the dining room table, I felt like a clairvoyant. Hell, set up my own 900-number, assume a name and a fake accent, and I’d be in business.
Picking up the bottle of beer I’d found in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator, I lean back in my chair, letting the hum of conversation flow around me. Dan shoots me a chagrined frown, and I shrug. Yeah, it’s one of the bottles he always keeps stowed away because he’s a beer man through and through. But sorry, that sweet Riesling Mom serves just ain’t cutting it. And hey, I didn’t touch the remaining three bottles in the vegetable crisper drawer.
“He went on and on about how smart Connor was. About how much they liked and respected him,” Mom says, continuing her story about bumping into a former college classmate of Connor’s at the bank. “Imagine, the Assistant Vice President praising him like that.” She shakes her head, her smile trembling as she blinks quickly. Battling back tears.
