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News flash: I have.
The thought of her dating someone drives me fucking insane. Touching her, feeling her body arch with every thrust and stroke was enough to make me pull up old addresses and look through all my payroll shit and drive my stupid ass over to her parents’ house.
Because this is what it is—dumb as fuck.
I’ve told myself a million times that this isn’t going to work.
That it’s a means to an end.
Something that’s not worth getting involved in, but that doesn’t stop the gravitational pull I feel when I think of her.
When I think of her with someone else.
When I see her walking around my tattoo parlor in those tight jeans and skimpy little tops.
I look back and remember what it felt like to fuck her, use her, sink my cock so deep inside her tight body that I couldn’t remember the day of the week or my fucking anything. Liv has completely consumed me in every way pleasurable and irrational, and I can’t stop the pull.
When my arm envelop her waist, hers wrap around my neck. Our lips collide on cue—tasting, savoring, starving. I’m pissed off that I didn’t know her birthday, but I don’t understand what for. It wasn’t like I was going to bring balloons and a damn birthday cake to the shop so we could all sing around her.
No, it would’ve been an ordinary day.
But not night.
Because I would be right where I am now. I would offer her anything under the sun, any sort of angle on my cock, and any amount of orgasms she could handle.
Her small fingers lace through my hair, widening our kiss and testing my composure to just sink us both to the floor while I fuck her right here.
I promised to eat her out.
I vowed she could have anything she wanted.
And I’m here to deliver said promise because it’s the only birthday present I can offer her. Everything else is basic and stupid.
“Hudson?” she says through our kisses, trying to pull away a bit, but I chase her mouth because I’m not ready to be done yet.
“Mhm?”
“I thought about what I wanted for my birthday.” My lips tilt upward at what my little vixen is going to say and how I’m going to do it. “I want a tattoo.”
What?
Pulling away to look down at her, those medium blues peer up at me with…hope? It’s the last thing—in my head—that I thought she’d bring up. And here I am thinking with my dick again. “Why do you want that? Your skin is perfect the way it is.”
I mean, who the fuck am I to tell her what to do?
No one.
“I wanted something across my ribs. Something small.”
“What, butterflies?”
Liv’s blues instantly slit at my quick judgment about what basic women want. “No. Does it matter what I want? I want a tattoo and for you to do it.”
You did this.
I’m the stupid ass that keeps inserting myself when all we have is an agreement and nothing else.
Benefits, sure, but I don’t need to be reaping them every five fucking minutes.
