Page 104 of Nash
"Graphic."
"Graphic. Vivid. Detailed. Multi-positional." We reach the bike and I turn to face him, leaning against the seat. "I had one where you bent me over my tattoo chair after the shop closed. One where you pinned me against the supply shelf and the bottles fell everywhere. One where you pulled me into the back hallway during a client's lunch break and put your hand over my mouth so Frankie wouldn't hear."
Nash's jaw locks. His eyes darken. His hand stays on my waistband, fingers pressing into the denim.
"And there was the one at Vesper."
His chest expands on the next breath and holds a beat too long before releasing.
"I don't even know what Vesper looks like inside," I say. "But I built the whole thing in my head. Dark rooms. Low lighting. You in a chair. Me on my knees." I hold his gaze. "I'm ready, Nash."
"Ready for what?"
"Vesper. The tour you promised. The real one." I trace the tattoo on his forearm with my finger, following the ink from his wrist to the crook of his elbow. "I want to see it. To see you in that space. I want to know what it feels like when you're not holding back."
He steps forward, his chest pressing against mine, pinning me against the bike. His hand slides from my waistband to my hip, fingers digging in.
"I'm never not holding back with you," he says. Low. The register that turns my thighs to liquid. "What I've shown you so far is the surface."
"Then show me the rest."
He kisses me hard, possessively, and his hand pulls my hip into him until there's no space left. I grip his cut with both fists. The parking lot, the lights, the bike against the backs of my thighs, all of it disappears. When he pulls back, my lips feel swollen. His breathing is rough.
"Tomorrow," he says. "I'll talk to Arden about the schedule."
"Tomorrow."
"But Ruby." He holds my face in both hands, tilting my chin up so I can't look anywhere except his eyes. "When we walk through those doors, the dynamic changes. What I do there isn't gentle."
"I don't want gentle. I want you."
His thumb traces my bottom lip. "Then you'll have me."
Amaranth opens at noon the next day. Frankie at the back station. Me at mine. Nash at his wall near the front, where he can see the door, the window, and the street beyond both.
He runs perimeter sweeps in the same methodical rotation I've watched for over a year. But now when he crosses his arms and his forearms flex, I know exactly how those hands feel wrapped around my throat. When his jaw clenches, I know the sound he makes when I grind against his cock. When his eyessweep past my station, I feel the gaze land on my skin like heat through glass.
My one o'clock is a guy named Ethan. Mid-twenties. Nice arms. He wants a half-sleeve extension on his right forearm, tribal work connecting to a piece someone else started. I consult, sketch, and position the transfer.
I check the mirror behind my station. Nash is still at his wall near the front, eyes on the street.
I lean closer to Ethan than the transfer requires and wrap my fingers around his forearm to position the paper. His skin is warm under my palm. I hold it. One second past the placement. Two seconds.
In the mirror, Nash's eyes leave the street.
Three seconds. My thumb presses against the inside of Ethan's wrist, adjusting the angle of the transfer. The touch is professional, competent, and completely unnecessary. My pulse kicks up. Not from Ethan. From the man in the mirror whose gaze just locked onto my hand like a scope finding its target.
His jaw clenches.
Heat blooms in my stomach. I hold for a fourth second, tracing the edge of the transfer with my fingertip, taking my time, because the jaw clench in the mirror is sending a current straight between my thighs and I'd like to see how far I can push before he breaks position.
His weight shifts forward. Half an inch. He catches himself, locks his stance, and the effort of the correction is visible in his shoulders.
I almost grin. Almost. I keep my face professional because Ethan is sitting right here and has no idea he's a pawn in a game between me and the man at the door, but my body knows. My body is keeping score. My nipples are hard under my shirt, and there is a growing situation in my underwear that has nothingto do with tribal half-sleeves and everything to do with the way Nash's hands just flexed at his sides.
"That looks good," Ethan says.
"Just making sure the alignment is perfect." My hand stays on his arm. I can feel Nash watching without looking at the mirror. I can feel it on my skin, the weight of his attention, focused, sharp, possessive.
