Total pages in book: 16
Estimated words: 15143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 76(@200wpm)___ 61(@250wpm)___ 50(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 15143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 76(@200wpm)___ 61(@250wpm)___ 50(@300wpm)
“She’s my girlfriend, you piece of—”
“I broke up with you, Martin. Leave.”
Martin blinks rapidly as though he can’t comprehend the words leaving out of my mouth. “Let’s talk, Maura.” He moves forward before getting pushed back again.
The stranger turns to me. “Do you want to talk to him?”
I don’t even hesitate. “No. I stand by my first request. Take me away from here.”
The stranger jabs a finger at Martin. “You heard her, man. If you touch her again, I’m gonna break your fingers.”
“You fucker. Who the hell do—”
“Just so you know, I don’t make threats I don’t follow through.”
The tension between them is so thick I can slice it with a knife. I tug the sleeve of the other guy and whisper, “Let’s go.”
Martin stands there in disbelief, his eyes flicking to the towering stranger and me climbing on the back of his motorcycle in my heels, the hem of my dress bunched around my knees. I slide the helmet over my head, not even caring if it messes up my hair and makeup.
The engine roars to life, cutting through the silence of the street, and I automatically wrap my arms around the stranger’s waist. Is this supposed to feel good? Because it does.
The wind picks up as we start to move, my grip tightening involuntarily. We speed through the city, the lights becoming nothing more than blurry streaks of color in my peripheral vision.
I should be worried about what happened with Martin, but I’m not.
For the first time in a long time, I can breathe.
The wind whips through my bare arms, and the cold air bites at my cheeks, exposed by the open visor. I find myself smiling, feeling light and free. That is until the motorcycle slows to a stop in front of a brick building with posters of tattooed men and women on the windows and a huge neon sign flickering overhead.
It says simply, “Inkd.”
The usual Maura would ask what we’re doing here, but honestly, I just wanted to get away from Martin. Instead of bombing this guy with questions, I slide down the motorcycle and smooth my dress, looking up to find him without his helmet, his hair mussed up, and his dark eyes staring straight into my soul.
My God. Are my eyes deceiving me, or is this the hottest man I’ve ever seen in my life?
2
TYLER
Afairy in the midst of us mere mortals. That’s what she looks like.
She sits on the sectional right in front of the leather tattoo chair. Her red pixie cut frames her small face and button nose perfectly. Her eyes seem too big for her face, which only serves to make her look more ethereal. Otherworldly. Like a goddess.
Under the bright light of the studio, I can finally see her eyes, which remind me of bright pools of water in summer.
Jesus Christ. Look at me being poetic and shit.
The first time I saw her, I thought she was beautiful. Now when I finally have the chance to look closer, she fucking robs me of breath. For a moment, I forget why I’m here and that my client is about to arrive any minute now.
With my head down and my hands busy with the prep, I look like I’m not paying her any attention. Wrong. I have the perfect angle to see her reflection in the mirror, and I can’t stop staring.
She’s looking at me too—out of curiosity or something else, I have no idea. And it makes me clumsy. I end up dropping the razor twice like a fucking amateur.
I drop all pretense of focus and lift my gaze to her, which makes her eyes widen and dart to the posters behind me. It’s exactly how someone looks when they’ve been caught staring, and the laughter leaving my lips surprises me.
“You ever been to a tattoo shop?” I ask, checking the time and realizing we still have around ten to fifteen minutes alone.
She runs her slender hands through her short hair. “No. Never.”
“You did ask me to take you anywhere.”
“I did.” She sighs and chews on her bottom lip. And fuck, now my eyes drop to those pink luscious lips that look as soft as a pillow. “Sir, I’m so sorry for dragging you into this.”
“Sir? Call me Tyler. I’m Tyler Reid.” The image of her biting her lip is seared into my retina, and I need to distract myself. Otherwise, I’ll find myself in an uncomfortable, awkward situation. “Was that your boyfriend?”
The side of her mouth lifts. “He was, and I’m Maura Beck, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Maura. And I’m sorry we met under such weird circumstances.”
She stands and reaches over the tattoo chair to extend a hand.
Normally, I would shrug and say, “That’s not my thing.” But something pushes me to do the same. My brain screams and reminds me how much I loathe touching without gloves on, which is why the only people I voluntarily touch are my clients. Flinching away from any form of touch is mostly muscle memory for me.