Razed (Barnes Brothers #2)(56)

“I knew you were naked under this. I knew it.”

“How?” She blushed even deeper as he cupped her breast and stroked his thumb across her nipple.

“Instinct.” He flashed her a grin. “And it was driving me crazy.”

The blouse caught around her waist as he turned, sat on the bed and guided her to kneel between his thighs. She was naked from the waist up. Leaning back, he let himself feast on the beauty of her, on the elegance of her tattoos scrolled up her arms, the way they swirled along her shoulders and down her upper chest to stop just above the slopes of her breasts.

He traced the lines of the rose that bloomed on her neck and pressed his mouth to it, male satisfaction rolling through him as she shuddered. He’d needed this, needed to feel her shaking as he touched her, needed to feel how much she wanted him. Was it as much as he wanted her? Could she ever want him that much?

He’d do his damnedest to make it happen, to brand himself on her as indelibly as those incredibly sexy tattoos.

More tattoos started along her sides and he tried to trace them only to get caught in the shirt. “Clearly, I didn’t think this through.” Easing her back, he stood up and grasped the shirt, pulling it upward. She lifted her arms to help him and he folded it, placed it on the table near the bed, before he went back to stroking his fingers along the tattoos, determined to memorize each and every line, every stroke, every curve, every swirl.

“You act like you haven’t seen them before.”

He looked up at her, smiling slowly. “The shower doesn’t count. I didn’t have my glasses, so I couldn’t see everything. And you wouldn’t let me play.” He slid his finger along the vine that started under her left breast. “Now I’m going to play.”

She shivered.

It made him smile as he turned her around.

Then he stopped, staring in amazement.

Her arms, torso, belly, and neck were a garden, only her breasts untouched by the vivid color of her tattoos. Delicate roses, tulips, and bright daises, other flowers he couldn’t name swirled and twined up her arms, vibrant bursts of color—some cute, others elegant, all of them beautiful.

The tattoo on her back was different, markedly, from the rest.

It was . . . haunting.

There was no other word to describe it.

And he realized, then, that he’d never once glimpsed it. Even with the clothing she wore, most of it picked out seemingly to showcase her ink, this tattoo had never been displayed so.

It was a tree, a stark, barren tree.

Her upper shoulders were bare, the tattoo ending along her mid-back, the branches of the tree empty, stretching across her back, the trunk following the line of her spine. At her hips, the ink flared out where the trunk met the ground and then, roots.

They trailed along her hips, curved along her buttocks before the ink stopped.

The entire tattoo was done in black, stark against her flesh.

She shivered as he leaned in and pressed his lips to the center of her spine, rubbed them along the edge of one barren branch.

“This is amazing.” He brushed his finger along one branch, felt her shudder.

She shrugged. “It’s just ink.”

“Funny words, coming from a tattoo artist.” He stroked the branch in toward the trunk. “Zach didn’t do this.”

“No. The guy who taught me did it. It was one of my first.”

He dipped his head forward to run his lips along another tree branch, one that curved around her side, almost long enough to tease the slight swell of her breast.

“It’s terrible to say this, but I’m kind of glad. I don’t think I want any of my brothers seeing you like this. Or anybody. Fuck, Keelie . . . you’re beautiful. You’re like a canvas and every single tattoo is a work of art . . . no. You’re the work of art.” He sank to his knees, trailing his mouth along her spine, his lips caressing the tree while her body trembled under his touch.

She swayed when he kissed the dip in her spine.

“Zane . . .”

He caught her skirt in his hands, started to tug. “Yeah?”

Her only response was a whimper and the sound of it was enough to draw that knot of hunger inside him tighter and tighter. After he’d stripped the skirt away, he settled back on his heels, studying the tree in its entirety.

She wore only a pair of icy blue panties that rode low along her narrow hips. The roots of the tree curled along her buttocks, trailing just to the edge of those panties. “Which one was your first?”

Slowly, she turned and he looked up at her from his position on the floor.

As she held out her arm, he shifted his gaze, studied the script.

Storms make trees take deeper roots.

Laying his hands on her thighs, he read it, thought about the tree. And something that might have been anger started to burn inside him. He shoved it down deep before he looked up at her. “Who said that?”

“Dolly Parton.” She shrugged. “Had a lot of . . . well, storms, I guess you could call them. A friend told me that once. It stuck with me. Got the tat to remind me that if nothing else, everything I’ve been through had made me strong enough to handle the shit life threw at me.”

Sliding his hand around, he danced his fingers up her spine, he studied her face. “Strong roots?”

“Ah . . .”

He leaned in and nuzzled her navel. “I see nothing but strength in you, Keelie.”