Nash (Marked Men #4)(44)

I felt compelled to ask, “All good?”

I levered up off of her, and when I pulled out, the drag of sensitized flesh against swollen folds made both of us groan a little.

She pried her eyes open and sat up. She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand and pulled one leg up to start working on those boots. Good Lord, she was going to kill me. All naked white skin, fire-colored hair, and sexy-as-hell black boots. I could die a happy man if that was the last image I got to take with me to the grave.

“Maybe next time we can try it without so many accessories in the way.”

I chuckled because I was still mostly dressed from the waist down, had been both times, but really I wanted to shout in victory at the fact she was even joking about there being a next time and not showing me the door.

“Sounds like a plan.”

She climbed off the other side of the bed and grabbed a robe that was hanging on the back of her closet door and flicked on the light. I blinked to get my eyes to adjust while she settled herself cross-legged in the center of the bed. She fiddled with the lapels and I remembered she mentioned not really liking to be naked. It was a shame, looking the way she did, she should never wear clothes.

“I wanna see the tattoo.”

I brushed my hands over my head.

“I gotta take care of this first, and well …” I sort of tossed my hands up. “It’s huge, and if you want to see it all, I have to get all the way naked.”

Now I could see her really blush.

“Bathroom’s that way.” She pointed in the direction we had stumbled in from. “I think my curiosity is greater than my embarrassment might be at this point. I really do wanna see it.”

I shrugged. “All right. I’ll be right back.”

I wasn’t shy. I would’ve stripped for her right then and there, but as much as I needed a minute to figure out why I felt like my entire world was suddenly rotating on another axis entirely, I figured she could use the little breather as well.

I took care of the condom, ran some ice-cold water over the top of my head, and splashed my face. I looked the same when I gazed at myself in the mirror … same eyes, same face, same piercings, same ink … but something felt different.

I dropped the rest of my clothes in a pile on the bathroom floor after I shucked off my Vans. I picked it all up and trucked back to the bedroom. She was where I left her, sitting in the center of the bed playing with the ends of her hair. Jesus, she was going to kill me. She had also plugged her phone into the dock on her nightstand and the Kills were filling the room with moody rock and roll.

“It’s a dragon.”

I forgot I didn’t have a shirt on when I had walked into the bathroom. I turned around so my back was to her and she could see the entire thing. I heard her quick intake of breath and the covers rustle as she moved across the bed.

“It is. Phil did it for me. We started the day I turned eighteen and finished it the day I turned twenty-one. It took over six hundred hours in the chair.”

A lot of people had dragon tattoos. No one had a dragon tattoo like mine. It was done in a traditional Japanese style. The colors were all screaming hues of bold reds, greens, yellows, and golds all over my skin. The tail started on the top of my foot, it wound all the way around my calf, covered my thigh, took up one entire butt cheek, the body twisted and turned across my spine until it reached my shoulder, where the fierce head was always watching me, the wings flared out, completely covered my sides, ran all along my ribs, and ended right next to my dick, the talons were gripping each shoulder in fierce, clutching hands, and the fire it was breathing rolled over my collarbone on each side and danced up the back of my neck until it forked off and marked each side of my head over my ears.

It was massive, had enough detail that it looked like it was going to fly away with me in its sharp claws at any second, and I knew enough about my chosen career field, the skill level involved in the piece, that the reason it was so spectacular was because Phil cared about me. I was more than his protégé, more than his kid, I was his walking, talking legacy of an art form he had simply loved and honed over the years. My dragon was his Mona Lisa.

“It’s so beautiful.” Her hands lightly stroked over my spine, and up along the ridges of my shoulders. “It’s so much more than just a tattoo.”

Something lodged in my throat at the fact she understood that without being in the industry or me having to explain it to her.

“I was pretty messed up when I was younger. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I did a bunch of dumb shit. Got arrested spray-painting a bridge, got into a brawl at one of Jet’s shows and sent some kid to the ICU, tattooed a bunch of dumb, pointless crap all over my body. Phil saw I was spiraling, tried to get me to stop it. He called me out and told me straight up I was acting like a toddler looking for attention from his mommy, which is exactly what I was doing.”

I sighed as her hands trailed over the wings and skated lower across my ass. She was petting the dragon, but it felt like she was trying to soothe me as well.

“He told me he would teach me how to do what he did. Tattooing always seemed like a cool thing to me, and when he offered to show me and Rule what art was really about and how to put all our feelings of being cast out to creative use, it was what stopped my free fall.”

I shook my head at the memory and gave a wan grin. I had to grit my teeth because her soft hands had found their way to the front of me and there was only one place they could stop.