8. Tess
TESS
B ack at the tattoo shop, Art parks the bike around the side of the building.
Nerves flit around my stomach. Tentative bridges have been built between us over the last few hours, and I’m worried I’m about to blow them up, but I don’t have any choice. I need to talk to him.
I climb off the bike and hand him the helmet. “Thanks for the ride, Art. I hate to take up any more of your time, but do you have ten minutes?”
“Yeah, I’ve not got my next client for another hour.”
“Oh, good. Umm, ‘cause the thing is, that meeting wasn’t just with my solicitor. I had a financial advisor there, too.”
He stares at me, daring me to continue, so I do.
“I know I mentioned increasing the rent on the shop, but the financial advisor said the sum I suggested was still way under what’s normally charged to rent a property in this location.
He also says I’m going to have a fair chunk of tax which is going to need to be paid, and I’m not going to be able to afford to do it on the rent you currently pay. ”
Art continues to stare at me, the helmet dangling from one hand. His eyebrows draw together in a frown. “What are you saying?”
I bite my lower lip, already sensing this isn’t going to go in the right direction. “That I may need to put the rent up on the shop more than I previously said.”
“What the fuck, Theresa?” He spits out my full name. “Are you trying to screw my life over?”
I reel back. “No, of course not. I’m just telling you what the financial advisor said—that you’re getting this place for a price far lower than anywhere else in this neighbourhood.”
“So you’re gonna put me out of business?”
“No, I didn’t say that?—”
“Are you trying to take everything from me? Just see me out on the streets? I bet that would suit you, wouldn’t it? You probably think that’s what someone as rough as me deserves. Don’t they have real men wherever the hell you come from?”
The mention of men back home feels like a knife to my heart. It hurts and I want to hurt him in return.
“Real men?” I snap. “I knew a real man, and he wasn’t someone who had to prove how tough he was by covering himself in ink.”
Art steps forward, reducing the space between us.
I swallow, hard, my breath catching. He’s twice my bodyweight, and he could easily overpower me.
The wall of the building is directly behind my back, and from this position down the side of the property, no one passing by can see us.
Art moves in so close, I can feel his breath against my cheek and throat.
He growls in my ear. “My ink has nothing to do with what makes me a man. My ink is what makes me human. It’s my passion. It’s art.”
He lifts his hand and takes hold of my jaw, tilting my face to the side. My breath catches in my chest. The atmosphere suddenly changes. The anger morphs to something else, simmering between us.
“What about your skin, Tess? What does it say about you? That you’re clean, and pure? Or does it say you’re bland and boring?”
My heart thumps, my blood fizzing in my veins. “You have no idea what my skin says about me.”
“No? I guess I haven’t seen enough of it yet.” With one rough movement, he yanks the collar of my shirt to one side, exposing my shoulder. My top button pings off and the next two pop free. “What about here?” His thumb runs over my collarbone. “Unblemished. Perfect.”
Where his thumb traces my skin, a trail of goose bumps erupt in its wake. I take a tremulous breath, my nipples crinkling, a thrill of excitement racing down, between my thighs. I should be pushing him away—this man I barely know—but I can’t bring myself to do it.
“I think I’d like to taste this skin.”
My breath catches. “Art, please, no.”
“I don’t think you mean that, Tess. I can see your nipples are so fucking hard through your shirt, they’re begging for it all by themselves. I’d like to find that out for myself.”
He moves closer again, pinning my body with his bulked frame.
I wouldn’t be able to get away, even if I wanted to, which I don’t.
He finishes tracing the collarbone on my left side, and moves to the right, slipping the shirt from my shoulders, so it now hangs half off my body.
I use my fingers to pin the sleeves to my wrists, not wanting to let him see me completely naked.
He said my skin is unblemished, but he has no idea what he’s talking about.
This time, instead of using his thumb to stroke across my skin, he lowers his mouth and lightly uses his tongue to trace a line.
I can’t help but give a little whimper, feeling like I’m going to melt in his grasp.
His tongue is hot and wet, but the trail grows cold in the air as his mouth makes its way to my throat and his lips meet the tender skin there.
He kisses the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder and then nips my skin, making me gasp.
One hand reaches up to lace in my hair at my nape, while the other slips inside the front of my shirt and cups my breast through my bra.
His thumb grazes over one hardened bud and he takes a breath of satisfaction.
“I told you your nipples would be hard. Is your pussy wet, too?”
“Art!” My mind spins, unsure if I’m panicked or turned on. “We can’t do this!”
“Stop talking, Tess.”
I stand there, my hands by my side, as Art kisses my neck in a way I’ve never been kissed before.
His fingers knot tight in my hair, forcing my head to one side to give him more room.
My body responds to him, heat and wetness flooding between my thighs, my nipples hard, sensitized pebbles.
His palm slips inside the lace of my bra, his hand hot against my flesh.
I feel dizzy with desire, my body arching against him, wanting more of him.
“Fuck, you’re so fucking sexy,” he growls.
Finally, he leaves my throat. His mouth crushes down hard against mine, and his tongue pushes into my mouth.
My hands come to life and I reach for him, my palms slipping over his shoulders, feeling the hard muscles of his back.
My mind flashes up images of him naked. How much of his body is tattooed, or pierced?
Art breaks the kiss and drags me out of the alley, half pushing me toward the back door of my building.
“In here,” he growls.
We bundle through the back door, and manage to make it to the stairs leading to the flat above. Art shoves me up against the wall once more.
He tries to tear the shirt from my arms, but panic shoots through me and I pull away. I distract him by undoing the button and zipper of my pants instead. His eyes are dark with lust, his expression hungry and fierce.
Art yanks down my pants and underwear in one go, and I do a strange hop and dance as I toe off my ankle boots, and he pulls the clothes from my feet.
Then he drops to his knees and is between my legs.
He leans in, his nose pressing against the small patch of curls on my mound, his mouth on my pussy.
His tongue draws a line right from my base, across my slit, and up to my clit.
“Fuck, you taste like honey.”
I grip his shoulder hard. “Oh, God,” I gasp.
I never imagined ten minutes ago that things were going to take a turn in this direction.
It’s been a long time since anyone has touched me like this.
Things between my previous boyfriend and me hadn’t been physical in the end, and I’d been okay with that.
It isn’t like I haven’t missed it—I have, but it simply hadn’t been there for reasons neither of us could do anything about.
Now, with this big, tough guy’s head between my thighs, his fingers and tongue separating me and spearing inside me, I find myself growing heady.
This is like the ride on the bike all over again.
Art is opening me up, both mentally and physically, reminding me how it feels to really live.
Tension builds in my stomach and thighs as he feasts on me, eating me like a man half-starved. I think I’ll come, standing here in a stairwell, half-dressed, with a tattooed man’s face between my thighs, but then he pulls away.
He stares at me, his gaze filled with hunger, his mouth wet with my arousal.
“I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll forget your own name.”
I whimper.
He pulls me down onto the stairs with him.
He kisses my mouth, and I taste myself on his lips.
I reach for him, wanting to feel him as well.
His cock is hard beneath his jeans, a thick, rigid line.
My fingers ache to hold him. How big will he be?
Big enough to excite me and terrify me in equal measures.
I tug at his belt, yanking it open, then pull down his zipper.
His jeans drop from his hips, and his cock springs out toward me. He isn’t wearing underwear.
I wrap my fingers around his length and pump him a couple of times, watching his face for his reaction. His eyes slip shut, and his lower lip falls slack as I masturbate him.
“Fuck,” he growls. “I need to be inside you. Now.”
Art pulls back, dislodging my hold, then reaches into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and pulls out the square shape of a condom packet.
What guy carries condom packets around in the inside pocket of his jacket?
He’s clearly a player, though my mind goes to the drawings of the woman I found last night.
Hell, I don’t care. I just want him, want to give into my primal needs for once.
I already did something crazy by jumping on a plane and moving to a strange country, so why not continue the madness by getting fucked on the stairs by a guy who’s only ever going to be bad news.
He kneels back on the stairs and takes hold of my waist. He flips me around, so my knees are on one tread, my elbows on the one a couple of steps up.
It occurs to me that we could climb the stairs and end up in a perfectly comfortable bed, but I don’t want to break whatever whirlwind of lust we’ve been caught up in.
Someone from the shop might walk through at any moment—Rocco or Kane, or one of the clients looking for the bathroom— and catch us.
They’d see everything with me in this position, my ass and pussy on display.
I don’t care.
I look over my shoulder to see him expertly rolling the rubber down the length of his erect cock. Just seeing him holding himself is enough to send desire coursing through my veins. He gets to his knees behind me, grabbing one hip as he positions himself, and nudging my legs apart.
I gasped as his cock presses against my opening.
“Your pussy is so pretty, so perfect, just like you. Now you’re going to take my cock like a good girl.”
He penetrates me then pushes deep.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groans.
I let out a moan and hang my head, squeezing my eyes shut.
It feels blissful to be filled and stretched so perfectly.
He reaches around my body, his fingers finding my clit.
I’m already swollen and sensitized from when he’d been licking me, and I’m right on the brink of orgasm.
He rubs my clit in little circles as he pulls out and slams into me again.
Pleasure has me in its grip, focusing every thought and feeling in my body on the sweet spot between my thighs. My breathing grows laboured. Art is panting behind me.
His fingers dig hard into my hips as he thrusts deep. His movements grow faster and faster, our skin slapping together. I’m climbing towards my peak, knowing he isn’t far either.
My orgasm hits me suddenly, tensing every muscle, my pussy contracting around him. My eyes squeeze shut, my body shuddering as pleasure rolls through me in wave after wave.
Over my shoulder, Art roars his release as he holds himself deep, his cock jerking inside me.
He slumps across my back, engulfing me with his large frame, his breathing laboured against me. The sex had been hard and fast, and insanely satisfying. A rush of relaxed euphoria sweeps through me. I don’t know how that happened, but I’m glad it did.
Art slips from my body, and gets to his feet, quickly knotting the end of the used condom and wrapping it in a tissue. I turn to him with a shy smile, but his brow is furrowed in a frown, his teeth digging into his lower lip.
“Fuck, sorry,” he says, not meeting my eye. “I don’t know what came over me.”
‘Sorry’ isn’t exactly the first thing I want to hear after I’ve just had sex with someone. What am I supposed to say to that?
“It’s fine,” I manage, feeling the two words are woefully inadequate. Telling him that’s the first time I’ve been properly fucked in over two years feels way too heavy, and so ‘it’s fine’ is what pops out.
“Yeah, course.”
He shakes his head slightly, as though trying to pull himself from a daydream. He reaches down and grabs my clothes. I’d managed to keep my shirt and bra on, thank goodness.
He offers the clothes to me, and I quickly pull on the bottom half of my outfit, before picking up my boots. Art has already put himself back together, so other than the slightly confused expression, he looks as though nothing happened.
“I’ve got a client arriving soon,” he mutters. “I should really get going.”
My cheeks burn hot with mortification, and I only want to escape upstairs and slam the door on the whole thing. What on earth was I thinking? How did a conversation about the rent end up with him screwing me senseless on the stairs?
“Yeah, of course,” I manage, clutching the rest of my things. “I’ve got to go and do.... stuff, too.”
He bobs in and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, before turning and fleeing into the shop.
I just about want to die. That kiss on the cheek is about the most awkward thing I’ve ever experienced in my life. It would’ve been better if he’d walked away without the kiss. It feels to me he did it because he thought that’s what’s expected after a man has sex with a woman.
Holding my boots in one hand, I run up the stairs and slam my way back into the apartment, shutting the door behind me. I wish he wasn’t right downstairs. I want to forget about him, not have him wandering around directly below me.
I put my hands over my face. What the hell was I thinking, allowing a guy I barely know to screw me on the stairs?
That was one huge mistake.