Destiny on Ice (Boys of Winter #1)(48)

I bend down and wrap my lips around the straw, peering up at him in what can only be described as a suggestive manner. I just can’t help myself.

“Aubrey, don’t.” His voice is raspy and his nostrils flare.

I like playing with fire. Brent’s fire, especially.

“What?” I ask all innocently as I let go of the straw.

Pressing his lips together in a tight line, he mumbles, “Let’s just go in the store.”

Following a wrought-with-sexual-tension stroll through the antiques store, we start back to my place. To de-charge the atmosphere I purposely choose a longer route. We both need more time to cool down before we find ourselves alone in my place.

“Are we walking around in circles?” Brent asks as he stops cold. Nodding to a small grocer storefront, he says, “This is the third time we walked by that little market.”

“Uh, I may have lengthened our route,” I sheepishly admit.

“Why?” he asks. And then, “Aubrey, what’s going on here?”

Uh-oh, he’s back to eyeing me suspiciously.

Sighing, I give up on delaying the inevitable. We have to go to my place eventually, right?

“Come on.” I motion to a side alley. “This way is a shortcut.”

We turn down the narrow passageway and it feels like the clock is ticking on our time bomb of lust. We have about five minutes before we reach my place, and I really need to get a hold of myself by then. Fortunately, I’m given a few extra minutes’ reprieve when a tattoo shop along the way catches Brent’s attention.

Stopping in front of the store, he suddenly asks, “Do you have any?”

Peering in at the colorful display of artwork available to be inked anywhere a person desires, I clarify, “Do I have any what? Tattoos?”

“Yes, Aubrey. Do you have any tattoos?”

Shaking my head, I admit, “No. But it’s only because I’m a really big sissy when it comes to needles.”

Brent smiles over at me. “You shouldn’t let that stop you. It’s really not all that painful.”

“Says the hockey player who’s immune to pain.”

He laughs.

This is a very interesting development, however. Not the pain part. As noted, Brent has a high tolerance for discomfort. I’m sure needles don’t faze him. It’s the ink thing that has my curiosity piqued.

I’ve never noticed any tattoos anywhere on his body. Not like with Benny, who has loads of them. With the way Brent runs around the house, though—semi clothed half the time—you’d think I’d have seen a tattoo somewhere, right?

Yet, I haven’t seen any ink on him. And that begs the question, “Do you have any tattoos?”

“Yeah,” he replies with a smug smile, “actually I do.”

“Do you have many?” I’m insanely curious as to where all this ink could be hidden.

But then I understand better when he says, “Nah, I only have one. It’s not very big, either. I’d like to get more eventually. Something more detailed, for sure.”

Cocking my head and staring at him curiously, I ask, “So where is this secret tattoo? I’ve never seen it.”

He looks at me pointedly. “You’ve not seen all of me, now have you?”

“Just about,” I blurt out before I realize how that sounds.

While Brent chuckles amusedly, my cheeks warm. He’s right, though. I’ve not seen all of him. He always has on shorts… or a towel… or a comforter covering the goods. Like that morning when he was hard as steel.

Clearing my throat—and my head of deliciously obscene images—I ask, “What is it of? Your tattoo, that is.”

His gaze never leaves me as he says, “My number.”

Say, what? “You have a tattoo of your number?”

He smiles at me, like he knows just where my thoughts are headed. “Uh-huh. I have the number fifty-one tattooed on me. You know, Aubrey, kind of like the number that’s inked on your green”—he coughs—“friend.”

It’s all I can do to keep my eyes from popping out of my head. And then all my filters fail and I blurt out, “You really have your number tattooed on your dick?”

“I prefer to call it a cock,” he coolly replies.

Holy crap! Real Brent is just like Brent 51. Only his, er, appendage is attached to a real man, with real skin, not some cheap imitation with a green plastic cover.

But still, a tattoo on his penis? I have to ask, “Wow, Brent. Didn’t that hurt like hell?”

He laughs. “I didn’t say my tattoo was there.”

“You didn’t say it wasn’t, either,” I counter.

“True.”

“So which is it?”

Brent Oliver then has the nerve to say to me, “Guess someday you’ll just have to find out for yourself, Aubrey.”





I’m Done Holding Back





Okay, so the number 51 is not on my cock. But I let Aubrey think it might be. I gotta give her something to think about, especially for when I get in that damn townhouse of hers and get busy kicking Al’s ass.

I’ve been so damn patient. And she’s such a tease. That little maneuver she did when I held out the latte for her, like she didn’t plan for me to imagine her lips wrapped around my cock when she did that thing with the straw. Of course, she’d need to open her mouth a whole lot wider if it were me.