Page 41 of Playboy’s Purgatory

I focus back on his face and when I press my palms to his pecs to push him back, I fuck up and squeeze instead. His eyes turn molten and he grunts in the back of his throat.

“Yes, I can,” my voice is filled with sass and challenge.

Playboy smirks and when I give a small shove, he takes a step back. It’s not surprising, not really, because I’ve seen how respectful the brothers are toward women. Still, it settles something inside my chest.

As he studies my face, something softens in his expression. I’m not sure what it means, but the way my body is heating up at our proximity is dangerous.

“That basket isn’t enough; it’s barely even the tip of the iceberg of what I need to make up to you.” He swallows hard, his eyes imploring me to hear him. “I want to show you I’m not that guy. I need to prove it to you.”

If only the problem was not believing him. Because I do.

“That’s about you, not me.” I force my voice steady, “I’m not required to help you prove a damn thing, and I’m not required to allow you into my life.”

Playboy’s eyes slide closed and my heartbeat stutters. Then he takes a large step back. I feel the loss of his heat immediately and my arms drop back down to my sides.

I want to pull him closer again, but I hold myself back. He felt too good under my palms.

“You’re right,” his voice is low and hoarse, “about all of it.”

“I know,” I don’t give him an inch.

He doesn’t get frustrated. He just takes it in stride, absorbing my words like I’m not trying to cause him to bruise.

“Since you’re here,” his voice turns charming, almost syrupy, “why not take a moment and check out my art?” His lips curl into a smile which is far too sexy. “You can just flip through some of my book? Since you’re here,” he repeats it like a mantra he thinks I’ll buy into, just like a cult would.

I’m more than aware of what he’s doing, but, damn it, he does make a good point. It’s times like these that I wish I could curb my curiosity. I haven’t even looked around very much, my entire focus on how pissed off I was, confronting him about the gifts, and putting a stop to it.

Now I look around to find the space clean and neutral with a moody bend. The walls are on the dark side, without making it feel like I just stepped into my goth era. The art on the walls is gorgeous. Every section around a chair has some wall space. From the variation in style, it’s obvious each space features that artist’s work.

“Fine,” I acquiesce. Not because he suggested it.

But because it is a promising idea. And I am curious.

He leads me back toward where he was sitting when I stormed up to him. His space is laid out neatly and everything is organized. I have no idea what I’m looking at other than the bottles of ink filling one piece of furniture which acts as a partition between areas.

Before I’m able to really take it all in, Playboy shoves a leather book in my hands and rolls a stool over to me. I take a seat gingerly and flip through the pages filled with his work, some are pictures of tattoos on people and others are design ideas.

The book is colorful and bold in some places and then restrained, simple, and graphicly striking in others. Looking at his work is only making it harder for me to turn down his offer to tattoo me.

I would be lucky to have his art on my body and trapped under my skin.

My eyes travel over his space and catch on him for a moment. Playboy is simply standing there, waiting. He’s not rushing me. He’s not trying to make his pitch.

It would make this a hell of a lot easier on me if he did.

As I look away from him, my gaze falls on a large, framed art piece on the wall. There’s a vague sketch of a woman’s figure, but that’s not what has enthralled me. It’s the tattoo drawn on one side of her body, from the outside of her upper thigh and weaving along the curves of her body up over her hip and torso. It then wraps up over her shoulder and down her arm.

The tattoo looks like stained glass has been made to mold around her curves, the most delicate armor I’ve ever seen. It’s designed as a scene of vines and florals. Down at the thigh, everything is dead, but as your eye moves up, the vines come back to life and the thorns fall away. Then the flowers start filling in slowly before becoming so vibrant and full of life that they look realer than a garden in full bloom.

Overall, the glass effect, where little spots of light are caught and some areas look translucent, is stunning. The large black lead lines ground the wistful feel of the piece and help to balance it.

I can’t tear my eyes away from it. Even though I should.

That tattoo is far too big for me. I’d probably beg for it to end and embarrass the hell out of myself.

I’ve never seen a tattoo as beautiful as this one.

“That tattoo came to me in a dream,” there’s a soft quality to Playboy’s voice which has me glancing his way.