The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos #3)(62)

Kicking off his boots, he fumbled with his belt. When he was finally free of his jeans and boxer briefs, he lay down on the bed, his face between her thighs, and licked her in long wet drags.

“Oh, Dred,” she cried out, grabbing a handful of his hair and grinding against him. He sucked on her clit hard, her moans becoming louder. He had no f*cking clue if Lia was home or not, but he wanted her to scream for him. Wanted to hear that almost violent explosion of pleasure that came from good, hard sex.

He slipped a finger inside her and continued to flick against her with his tongue. Pixie started to grind against his face, and he could feel her start to contract.

“Ah . . . Dred,” she screamed as she came hard against him. He let her ride out her orgasm, but quickly reached for the condom and put it on.

He didn’t stop to wipe his face, wanting Pixie to taste herself. He kissed her firmly as he entered her. The feel of her hot flesh wrapped around him, still fluttering with the aftermath of her orgasm, nearly sent him over the edge. Her tongue dove into his mouth, driving him wild. Unable to resist, he started to slide in and out of her, withdrawing all the way out before slamming home.

Grabbing one of her hands, he lifted it, and placed it over her head, then reached for the other. Christ, Pixie was moving frantically against him, it was the hottest thing he’d ever experienced. He gripped both wrists in one of his hand and thrust harder.

“Rule two,” she cried, and he realized she wasn’t enjoying it, she was fighting him off. “Please, don’t . . . my hands.”

Dred pulled out of her and rolled them so she was up against his chest, shaking in his arms. “Snowflake. I’m sorry. What? Did I hurt you?”

If she said yes, it would break his heart in two, because he’d never deliberately hurt her.

“I’m sorry . . . it’s . . . I . . . just not my hands.”

Dred’s heart thundered, his body flooded with adrenaline and disappointment. How could he have not paid more attention to what was happening? How she was feeling? Was he really so caught up in his own pleasure that he could completely disregard hers? Man, he was an *. He stroked her hair. “You don’t want your hands restrained?”

“No,” she whispered quietly. “But everything else was perfect.” She ran her fingers across his chest and placed little kisses against his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Pixie, I should have—”

“Rule three, remember. I asked you to stop. You did. I told you why. Now I’m asking you to not treat me like glass.” Pixie climbed on top of him and looked him straight in the eyes.

“Then ride me, gorgeous,” he said to her, putting his hands on either side of her face.

She pressed her lips to his. “I intend to.”

Lifting her hips and using her hand, Pixie lowered herself over his cock. He groaned as she took him inside her. She raised off him and pressed down hard, repeating the action over and over until she was riding him with such a frantic rhythm he was moments away from exploding. Pixie might be inexperienced, but shit was she a fast learner.

“Pixie, I—”

“I want this. I want this side of you. Take me, Dred.”

He grabbed her ass and pistoned his hips off the bed in long fast strokes until he was so delirious his head spun.

“Dred,” she cried out and dropped her fingers to her clit.

The sight of it sent him over the edge. “Ah . . . f*ck . . .” he shouted as he came, drowning in emotion as she followed him over the edge.

*

Between the giant lighting system that had been installed around Second Circle and everyone involved in filming the show all crammed into the small space, the temperature had risen twenty degrees in the studio. Pixie had kicked the air conditioning into gear, but it was struggling to make any real impact.

It was strange to see Trent and Dred in show mode. Dred had more makeup on than she did, and she’d watched him grumble as it was applied.

Close to wrapping for the day, the final sequence needed for the next episode of Inked was underway. Trent and Harper were filming a personal segment on why tattooing over scars meant so much to them. The episode contained a challenge where each competitor had to tattoo over a scar on their volunteer. Watching the way Trent held Harper’s hand, the way he looked at her when she was speaking, the way he’d taken her to one corner to whisper how proud he was of her, made her heart feel whole.

“Kinda beautiful, isn’t it?” Dred whispered as he wrapped his arms around her waist from behind.

“Yeah. I remember her first appointment,” she said quietly. “She sat on that bench outside for ages before she could walk in. I kept telling Trent to start someone else, but he was having none of it. I think he knew then.”

“Knew what?”

“I think he knew she was it for him.”

Pixie wanted that. She looked down at the tattooed arms holding her securely, and realized she might already have found it.

They’d talked some more the previous evening as they’d lain in bed. She’d considered telling him the truth. About her father and what he’d done. But how could he want her after that? After she’d . . . No. She hadn’t been able to tell him, or even find the words. So instead, she’d told him she felt out of control and needed the freedom of her hands to feel comfortable.

Dred had been sympathetic, and they talked at length about exploring their respective limits. It had been no surprise that Dred was incredibly liberal when it came to sexual preferences. “Try anything once,” seemed to be his motto. She wondered if she could be that girl, with all of her hang-ups. She loved the idea of broadening her experiences with him, yet was terrified by where it might lead.