AllFreeNovel
Share Us
And that's one thing I don't like in my sex life—wild cards. Right now, Blakely's in control, and I don't like it one bit.
7
Blakely
I'm making coffee when Riggs walks into the house, naked, except for a towel around his lower body. The tattoos on his torso glow in the morning light, and I wonder if I've ever seen anything so majestic.
He quickly disappears into the bedroom, forcing me to tear my eyes off his backside, which is just as toned from surfing as the rest of his body. I return to focusing on brewing the coffee. I'm pouring my first cup when he returns to the main room.
He's wearing khaki shorts and a pink linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, displaying his ink. I could look at him all day, clothed or unclothed, and when he gives me an arrogant expression, I realize I've been staring.
I clear my throat and ask, "When did you get all those?"
He glances at his forearm and shrugs. "Over the years. I got my first one when I was sixteen." He points to the big swell on his arm.
I trace my finger over it, questioning, "Did you always surf?"
"I stole a board when I was thirteen. Been obsessed ever since," he confesses.
I laugh. "You stole it?"
He nods. "Yep."
"Why didn't you just have your parents buy one for you?" I ask.
His face darkens. He answers, "They weren't into surfing." He turns and grabs his keys off the counter.
I point out, "You've never shown your tattoos when you were at my parents' house. You've always worn long sleeves, even when it was hot. Why is that?"
He grunts. "Your father looks down upon them. He believes that the people we deal with look down on tattoos. He claims they don't give off the impression we should make. When we started our business, I agreed to always keep them covered during events or business meetings."
I mutter, "Sounds like my father."
"You know him well," Riggs says with disgust in his voice, making me wonder again how my father screwed him over. Riggs tosses a notepad and pen on the table, then points to the contract. "You're to spend all day going through this. Do you understand, Blakely?"
I roll my eyes. "Yes."
"Don't do that when I tell you to do something," he warns.
"You've told me several times," I remind him.
He ignores my statement, demanding, "Sit down."
His tone annoys me but also gives me butterflies. It happens every time he orders me around. I don't understand why I like it, but something in me does. So I oblige him and sit down.
Riggs asks, "What do you need to work on your music?"
Surprised he's asking, I recover and tap the notepad. "Only this."
He peers at me, then asks, "That's it? Didn't you used to play the piano? You need an instrument or something, don't you?"
A wave of frustration passes inside me as I think of the grand piano my parents bought only for looks. It wasn't meant to be played, except at high-end parties when my father hired what he referred to as "the talent." I question, "How do you know I used to play the piano?"
Riggs admits, "Your mother told me."
I shift on my feet. "I only played it when no one was home. She caught me a few times. My father didn't like me using it. He claimed it encouraged me to keep my head in the clouds."
Riggs stares silently for a moment with a look of disapproval on his face. He finally asks, "What have you been using to create your music since you left home?"
