Page 43 of Flint
“You can do that? Just collect evidence like a detective?”
I shake my head. “We have a contact with the local PD. Jasper will probably get him to come, collect samples, and send them off to his crime lab. We might be able to get fingerprint identification sooner. That’s how it’s gone down in the past.”
“I didn’t realize everything was so formal between your club and the police.”
“It’s not. It’s one guy who’s pretty much built himself a sterling career on the cases we’ve handed him. We bring him all the best crime, and he does the things that take technical skillswe don’t have, and we help him catch the bad guy. It works out for both of us.”
She perks up. “How did you locate the vehicle? I want to know everything.”
I tell her all about the two guns for hire and how my calls all around LA drew them here. I was their primary target, and she was their secondary target. She seems distressed for a few minutes until I explain that we roughed up the one we caught, got information on where the sedan from the beltline was, and then cut him loose with a message for the fuckers who hired him. I smooth out all the wrinkles, so she doesn’t worry. I not only believe we have the situation under control, I believe we’re one step closer to finding the man who was in the trunk.
We talk into the evening, have a light dinner, and when I reach for my napkin, there is a sketched design on it.
It’s clearly a caricature of me because the face carries all my distinctive features. Picking it up, I have to smother back a smile. She’s drawn me with a big head on a smaller body, and I’m riding on an even smaller bike. It’s cute how she got my beard and tattoos right.
When my eyes lift to hers, I can tell that she’s pleased with herself. “This was the drawing you were working on when I left?”
Her eyebrows fly up. “It’s a sketch, and yeah, that’s what I was working on. Tess said it looks just like you.”
My eyes drop down to the sketch pad that she’s laid aside. I jerk my chin towards the closed book. “What else have you been sketching?” I ask as I slide the napkin with my face on it into the inner pocket of my cut.
She grabs her sketch book and holds it in front of her like she doesn’t want me to see. When she blushes, I know I’ve got to see what’s inside her sketch pad. Eyeing it, I realize it’s not the same one she showed me before. This one is smaller and has a slightly different cover. Reaching across the table, I close my hand over the top of the spiral rings running along the top.
She panics slightly. “Flint, don’t.”
“I think you have naughty sketches of me in your book. If you let me see, I might pose for you like those naked dudes in your art classes.”
Her arms fall slack, like her mouth, as I pull the pad across the table.
“How did you know there were naked men posing in my art classes?”
I snort a laugh as I flip the cover up. “Everyone knows art students sketch naked bodies.”
When I look down, my cock gets hard instantly. She really has drawn racy images of me. Tommy would beat my ass if he saw these images, but I’m caring less and less about that the more time I spend with his sister. It’s what she wants that should matter. And it’s pretty clear what she wants is me.
The first sketch in the book is me sitting on the sofa wearing nothing but jeans with the fly open enough to barely see what happens where my happy trail ends. I can see the thick root of my own cock. She sketched that lopsided smile I sometimes have onto my face. She’s neatly drawn every single tattoo on my body from memory.
I’m not a judge of how attractive men are, but I think she might have made me way more attractive than I really am. To ease my throbbing cock, I flip to the next page. That’s when I smile for real. The whole page is nothing but my bicep in intricate detail, only she’s worked her own name into my design. I recognize that for what it is, claiming behavior. She wants her name on my body.
I keep flipping, and every page is just more of the same. Downright sexy sketches of me, all of them with my jeans slung low on my hips and no shirt. I’m always smiling, always happy. By the time I get to the end of the book, I want nothing more than to have this reality she presents in her sketches.
Even though I want to toss her over my shoulder, carry her downstairs to our room, caveman style, and give her so many orgasms she begs me to stop, I don’t, because she doesn’t need to deal with my ugly cock right on top of all her other problems in life. She needs me to be the better man who doesn’t take advantage of her in her time of need.
When I close the book and hand it back, I can see the need and disappointment on her face. “Is this one of those situations where artists prove their skill by sketching old, crusty people and making them seem worlds more interesting than they actually are? If so, you did a good job, sweetheart.”
She frowns at me, and it’s a genuine frown. “Don’t do that. Don’t talk negatively about the best thing in my life. You’re not old and crusty. You’re a man in the prime of his life, living life on your own terms. I know I’m not your type, but any woman would be lucky to end up with you.”
I freeze, wondering if that’s how she really sees me. As something worthy and desirable. I lower my voice and tell her,“It’s not that you aren’t my type. You’re exactly my type, but you’re off limits and going through a crisis. I’d be an asshole to take advantage of you right now.”
I watch a multitude of expressions cross her face one after another. The one that sticks is defiance. It’s obvious by the way her chin comes up and her eyes narrow slightly. I can’t keep the stubborn pride from surging in my chest that this is the thing she’s decided to get stubborn about.
“That’s fine. We don’t have to get together, enjoy the slide of our naked bodies against each other, or even do low-grade making out like kissing and touching. It’s not like you’d really enjoy having my hands on your cock.” Gesturing towards the bar where all the club girls tend to gather, she adds, “You have all the pretty hands a man could ever want, right? I’m the only one sleeping alone and seeing to my own needs.”
Every word she just said takes my breath away. Every single word. She just put all kinds of visual images in my head that won’t go away. I can almost imagine what she looks like naked and how good our bodies would feel sliding against each other. And the icing on the cake is the image of Jules with her hand between her legs, masturbating to thoughts of me. Fuckin’ hell, I’m totally fucked moving forward.
“You’re killing me here, Jules. I’m never gonna get those images out of my head.” I realize after I speak how hoarse and ragged my voice sounds.
“Well, a deal’s a deal. I let you see my images, and now you owe me one nude sitting.”
