Page 20 of Possessive Ink

“I should go,” I start.

“Why?” he questions, eyeing the sofa then me again until I sink down into it, swallowing back the moan that threatens to burst from my lips. This is the most comfortable sofa I’ve ever sat on. It’s firm, but in the minute I’ve been sitting on it, it’s molded to my body and is supporting me like a Lemon-shaped cloud.

Smiling like he knows exactly how fabulous his couch is, Atticus saunters into the kitchen, lifts my chocolate heaven cake out of the box and puts it onto a plate. Carrying it back to me, he sits down beside me, stabs a sliver of cake, and holds the fork to my lips.

Does he actually want to feed me? I have no idea why, but the idea of a man feeding me cake, especially chocolate cake, makes my body become a pile of turned-on goo. Eyeing the fork he’s patiently holding to my mouth, I lean forward, part my lips, and drag the cake onto my tongue.

I can’t help it. When the chocolate taste hits my mouth, I moan. The sound is wanton and so embarrassing that I want to sink deep into this couch and die, but instead of laughing or pointing out what an idiot I am, Atticus simply sinks the fork into the chocolate goodness again and holds a second bite out to me.

His eyes seem to heat as he tracks my movements, watching as I chew, then eventually swallow. Bite after bite, he continues to feed me until the cake is gone, and my panties are a sopping mess. Neither of us has spoken a word in what feels like forever, but my body is reacting like I just watched some really good porn, not eaten cake fully dressed.

“Ready to share?” Atticus rasps, his voice rough and low.

“Share?” I ask.

His nod is slow as he moves the plate and fork onto the coffee table. Reaching for me, he cups my face in his huge, tattooed hand, the heat of his skin both comforting and arousing me. I don’t know why, but I’m not expecting it when he leans forward and kisses me. It’s not a soft kiss. Instead, his lips are demanding as his tongue pushes its way into my mouth to taste the chocolate he just fed me.

It’s the best kiss I’ve ever had. In the past, kisses have either been too wet or too dry, too handsy or not handsy enough. But Atticus seems to know exactly what to do, and what not to do, to have me leaning into him, ready for more.

The longer we kiss, the more I want, and by the time he pulls away, slowly relinquishing his hold on my face, I’m ready to climb into his lap and see how well my ass fits pressed against his dick.

“Perfect,” he growls, running the tips of his fingers over the goose bumps that have pebbled across my arms. The contradiction between his tattooed hand and my bare skin seems strange, and I reach out and brush my finger over one of his, touching the black lines that are inked into his flesh.

I’ve never actually touched a tattoo in real life before. I know lots of people who have them, but I’ve never felt brave enough to ask to touch one. A part of me expected to be able to feel it, like the picture would be raised above his skin, but of course it’s not. His smooth skin is flat and unblemished.

“I like your tattoos,” I whisper.

“I like your perfect skin,” he says back, drawing a line up my arm to the ball of my shoulder.

“Do you think I’d look good with a tattoo?”

“No,” he says quickly. “I like you like this.”

“But you’re a tattoo artist. Surely everyone you meet is a potential canvas.”

“I love my job, but I’d kill anyone who marked your skin. You can’t improve on perfection,” he says, not looking at my face, his gaze fixed on my bare throat.

Scoffing lightly, I shake my head. “I’m not perfect.”

“You are to me,” he says easily, like it’s a throwaway comment and not a grenade he just pulled the pin out of without warning anyone to run.

“You don’t know me,” I tell him, my brows drawing together as my shoulders tighten.

“No, I don’t. But some things are instinctual. Like this.”

“Like, what?” I ask, feeling stupid. What is he talking about?

“Like, what this is going to be.”

“Atticus, you’re starting to freak me out,” I say, leaning away from him for the first time since he started to feed me.

Blinking, he turns intense eyes on me, the silver hoop in his nose glinting in the sunlight flooding in from the skylights above us. “Settle, Princess,” he coos, his tone soft but determined.

Princess? No one has ever called me that before. I know I can behave like a bit of a diva sometimes, and I do enjoy looking and acting like a heroine from a period drama, but Princess? “I should probably go.”

“Why do you want to leave?” he questions, palming my face again and rubbing the pad of his thumb over my lower lip.

“I’m sure you have things you need to do today.”