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Icame three times last night and I would wager why I didn’t sleep a wink. Not even a cold shower doused the heated thoughts of one tattoo artist that checked all the bad boy boxes for me.
How could I sleep when every time I closed my eyes images of Diesel popped into my head? It didn’t take much to recall his dark eyes, the way his hair always looked mussed or that he gave me my first kiss.
Or the feel of his steel length of his arousal teasing my clit until my toes curled.
One thing my momma always said was I had a memory like an elephant. And last night I put it to good use.
My clit still throbbed and my legs felt a little shaky.
It had been four years since I last returned home. Christmas, if I remembered correctly. I hadn’t been doing so well then. In fact, it was the year I got the tattoo I was trying to cover right now. Ironic as it may be.
Hand on the brass handle, I eased the door open to the jingle of a bell. Cool air chased away the Savannah summertime heat, and I sighed. I might love the heat of a Southern summer after years of living in the North, but I don’t like how it curled the ends of my long hair.
The minute I walked into the tattoo shop, I forgot all about bookshelves and heatwaves. A familiar rush hit my system and a jolt of adrenaline spiked my blood. Besides the tattooed name of he-who-shall-never-be-named on my upper hip, I also had a delicate hummingbird in flight over a pink rose on each shoulder.
I hadn’t had any new ink in too long, but it was time to remedy that. New beginnings called for it, right? Plus, after my fantasy-filled night, I was dying to see Diesel.
The shop looked clean and the white walls plastered with beautiful art that screamed they belonged to the man I sought out. They were not your generic variety of butterflies and skulls that people liked to choose from.
I breathed in the scents of burning vanilla incense and stepped up to examine a poster closer. A ring of flames with a heart in the center that seemed to be pulsing off the canvas. Next to it hung a portrait of a crying woman with a reflection of the person she was crying for in the tear running down her cheek. My heart cracked for the unknown person who commissioned such a piece.
“I’ll be right with you,” a man called in a deep, familiar tone from his station off to the side. A shimmer of excitement raced up my spine and spiraled down in a storm of need to make my clit pulse.
I only meant to toss a friendly smile over my shoulder in understanding, but suddenly that night five years ago on the beach came rushing back to me.
“Diesel,” I whispered. Saying his name out loud. Tasting the sound on my lips.
His broad back directed to me, but he turned his head slightly, giving me a view of his dark eyes lined with black lashes and the fringes of a tattoo that twined around the base of his neck before dipping below the collar of his shirt.
“Take your time. I’m just looking around,” I responded lightly, too caught up in drinking him in to say more.
Did he recognize me? Probably not. Half of my face was covered by a large swath of hair.
I forced myself to move on to the next poster and let my heart catch up with the rest of me.
This one was framed. But it didn’t need the thick silver borders to give the piece importance. It stood on its own as one of the best drawings I’d ever seen. The piece could easily be inked onto someone’s back or chest, and the details were breathtaking, vivid.
Diesel had not lost his eye for detail in the years between seeing each other. My trepidation about having my tattoo covered faded every second I breathed in the magic of his space.
“What can I do for you?” The deep male voice trickled into my senses. When I pulled my gaze to his, nothing prepared me for the gorgeous tattooed specimen standing before me.
The man I wanted to lose my virginity all those years ago had changed. Matured in ways I never thought about back then. It was in the eyes and the way he stood. The years had given him character, and I loved it.
He looked as exquisite as the art on the walls. Okay, so his dark hair still tousled just like the old Diesel. But he wore the sides trimmed close to the scalp while several rebel strands fell over a smooth forehead. Straight brows, straight nose. Defined, firm lips and a jawline that could cut glass polished off the look of a man who could drop panties for fifty yards out.
And the one thing that stood out the most standing this close—his size. Damn, he was huge. A mountain.
Blood rushed in my ears, and a full five seconds passed before I could think past the way he tasted on my tongue that first kiss.
His eyes were warm, dark moons fixed on me, and the creases at the corners were the only signs he was a day over thirty-five. I cocked my head. That said, he did look a little worn around the edges. Like a man that had seen shit in life that could not be erased.
He wore a white button-down shirt open at the collar with the sleeves rolled over his impressive forearms, thick with veining and inked entirely in an array of colors. I flicked my gaze back to the big piece wrapped around his throat.
“Hey, Diesel.”
I grated my teeth over my lip and forced myself to breathe.
Diesel’s brow furrowed before recognition smoothed out the lines across his forehead. “Kaila? No damn way. Is that you? Seriously? My god, baby, get over here and give me a hug.”
