Page 40 of Hooked on Trouble

I kiss her mouth hard. “Soon. First we play a game.”

Pouting, she releases her legs from my waist and slides down my body. I’m aching to be inside her, but this is about more than sex for me. Nikki tells me I care too much, that I’m always trying to be the hero. Maybe I am. But learning more about Raven means I can be here for her when it counts. Pick her up when she falls. And I need to know, without a doubt, she’s willing to do this with me. Not close down when I pry.

I brush her bangs aside and tilt her chin up. Her well-kissed lips are red and swollen. “I planned on us getting naked slowly.”

Her quiet “Okay” is the perfect amount breathless.

I leave her at the wall and glance around the room. The curtains and comforter are red and gold, the brownish carpet a little worse for wear. A couple of sailboat paintings hang on the cream walls, my mind instantly on the pirate ship sailing across Raven’s tailbone. An interrogation is what we need. Two chairs flank a small table, so I drag them to the foot of the bed and face them toward each other.

I nod to the far one. “Have a seat.”

She adjusts her twisted dress and pats down her flyaway hairs, eyes narrowed as she follows my instructions. “Are we playing spin the bottle?”

I turn off the main light and switch on a lamp, then I sit opposite her, my legs wide and arms crossed, my dick throbbing. “I’m curious about your ink. For every answer I get, I’ll remove a piece of clothing. Same goes for you. Think you can play this game with me?”

“Sure, big guy. I’ll play your silly reindeer games.” Her tone is playful, but she’s tracing her rose tattoo, something she does when she’s uneasy.

Eyes locked, I ask, “The skull at the top of your left arm, how it dissolves into a flock of birds. What’s the significance?” It’s a sick tattoo, the mass of wings flapping down to her wrist.

She glances at it and smiles. Must be an easy one. “I had Lily and Shay each design something for the piece. Shay did the skull, said it was badass like me, and Lily did the ravens—an homage to my name.” Pleased with herself and how little she had to share, she sits taller. “Pass over your shirt.”

My fucking pleasure. I yank the offensive blue-and-orange-flowered top over the back of my head and toss it at her. She eyes my chest and bites her lip. I get harder. “Your turn.”

She tilts her head, her dark gaze practically drawing lines over my body. Over both tribal sleeves and the large area inked on my left pec, down to my baggy pants, zeroing in on the bulge I can’t hide, and up to my neck. “The phoenix,” she says, motioning to the tail that hangs in the middle of my chest. The bird’s body curls over my trap and up the back of my neck, flames licking at its wings. “Tell me about it.”

“Typical symbolism. The phoenix burns and rises from the ashes, reborn. I decided on it when I was thirteen but didn’t get it ’til I was older.” The day comes back, the emotions less potent but there. Always there. “They’d arrested my father the year before. He was high on something that day and grabbed me by my shirt and told me I was a worthless piece of shit. A year later he was paroled. My mom had baked a cake, like she did the previous two times. She was excited to see him, but I was dreading it. Wished he hadn’t been released. He never came home, and I imagined that as the start of my life—reborn like the phoenix. Next time I saw him was fifteen years later. The day I arrested him for dealing.”

It’s been a while since I’ve spoken about this, but a familiar anger flashes behind my eyes. A father is supposed to support you, not break you down. Not leave your mother a crying mess. Not force his son into a position where he has to choose between family and what’s right, even if that family deserves jail time.

Her gaze doesn’t leave mine. “How old were you when you finally got the tattoo?”

“Eighteen.”

She nods, emotion brimming in her eyes. “What do you want of mine?”

Your heart, I want to say. “Your dress,” I ask for instead.

She stands and steps closer. “Mind helping me with the buttons?”

This, I like. The slow seduction. Getting pieces of her before I take what I want. “Sure.”

I stand, too, towering over her. Before I touch her dress, she traces the lines of the phoenix, and the edge of her nail drags across my skin. “You’re remarkable.”

It’s the same word I almost used to compliment her at the slums, but I don’t reply. I’ve never shared that much detail with a woman. Sawyer and Kolton know the shit I’ve dealt with, how hard it was to put my own father away. Remarkable isn’t the word I’d have used to describe myself, but from her, I’ll take it.

She stands, shoulders square, chest up, waiting for my big fingers to fumble with the tiny buttons keeping her body and stories hidden. She took care of the top two on our way in, so I start with the third. It pops out easier than I thought. I open the neckline farther, her breasts rising faster, then I undo the next.

And the next.

It goes like this. I spread the fabric apart, release a button. My fingers graze her chest, her breasts, her ribs, then I reach her waist. I slip the straps off her shoulder, and the blue dress pools at her feet, revealing a skimpy black bra and thong. Goose bumps flare across her skin.

“You’re skilled with your fingers.” Her voice is nothing but a hum.

I almost stop this game right here, almost drag my hands all over her. Seventeen months is a long time to go without a woman. But this is Raven, and I want more. Slowly, I back up and sit. Different flowers float across her chest, waves and petals flowing down her right arm. All black-and-gray ink, like mine. All shaded beautifully. Two wild horses decorate her left side and rib cage, a tattoo that probably hurt like hell, but it’s the shitty image on her right hip that has me curious. “Is that a chicken?”

She startles as if woken up and snorts. “Actually, it’s a guitar.” When I frown, she moves between my legs and angles the piece toward me. “I had a friend who wanted to practice. He’d just started tattooing, and I was high at the time, so I let him do a guitar on my hip. It is now affectionately referred to as the choking chicken tattoo.” She doesn’t smile at the comment. Her usual sarcasm barely covers her irritation.

“You regret it?”