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Brendon shoots him a don’t look.
There’s some story I don’t know.
That I’m not going to find out.
I love working at Inked Hearts, but it’s hard being the perpetual new guy. The original owners have a secret language.
Brendon’s eyes fix on me. “You need some advice?”
Yeah, but I can’t admit it in such plain language. “Always good for the tip.”
Dean laughs. “Sounds like you want his tip.”
I flip him off.
He laughs.
Chloe nods. “I hate to admit it, but Dean is right.”
“Don’t you two have shit to do?” I ask.
Brendon shoots them a go away look.
Somehow, it works.
Dean pulls Chloe to the office.
Brendon moves into my suite.
His gaze shifts to my sketchbook. “Coming along?”
“Getting there.” I hold up the current design. A half-sleeve inspired by Chinese dragons. It’s beautiful. Sharp details. Bold colors. Complete lack of personality.
He nods. “This going on a shoulder?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s good. Enough curve. Strong lines.” He stares at the paper. “It’s a nice piece.” Something drips into his voice. A hesitation.
“But?”
“It’s not a Wes original. Anyone could design that.”
“Not everything—”
“Yeah, but some things.” He steps backward. Shrugs. “Not my place.”
“You are my boss,” I say.
“Only technically.” He leans against the half wall. “You ever want help, let me know.”
“Sure.” I swallow hard. Brendon is too straight-forward. He’s not as bad as Ryan—that guy wears his heart on both sleeves—but he’s still a lot.
“Who’s the virgin?” he asks.
“Dean’s being an idiot.”
“Dean’s always an idiot.”
I shrug true enough.
Which does nothing to fool him.
He moves a little closer. “There is a girl.”
“Yeah.”
“You like her?”
“She’s sweet, yeah.”
“Sweet or sweet?” he asks.
Somehow, he packs pounds of intention into the single word.
Is she a sweet person or the kind of sweet innocence that demands getting very, very dirty?
She’s both.
And I want both.
I want to cook dinner with her. Talk to her. Hold her in my bed.
And I want to make her come until she passes out.
“You really like her.” He smiles. “I know the feeling.”
“How is your girl?” My gaze flits to the clock. I have an appointment at the top of the hour. Which is forever away. There’s nowhere to hide. No escape from how real this is.
“Good. At a coffee shop, writing.” His expression beams with pride. “She’s halfway through her first novel.”
“That’s great.” I only sorta know his girlfriend, Kaylee. But it’s obvious they’re madly in love.
“I wish I could tell you I was sweet and gentle the first time I fucked her,” Brendon says. “But I wasn’t.”
“Oh?”
“It wasn’t what she needed.”
“What did she need?”
“That is none of your fucking business.” His eyes flit to the door as the bell rings. “But I can tell you this.”
“Yeah?” I ask.
“As long as you give her what she needs, you’re golden,” he says.
The bell rings as the door swings open. “Hello?” Quinn’s voice echoes around the shop.
My body responds immediately.
My cock stirs.
My heart races.
My limbs get light.
I want to fuck her.
And I want to hold her.
I have no fucking idea how to deal with that.
Chapter Thirteen
Wes
Quinn folds her hands together.
Her hazel eyes fix on me.
“Hey.” Her voice is soft. Shy. Pure Quinn.
I’m flattered.
Endeared even.
But I need to push past this.
I need her comfortable.
“Hey.” I motion to my suite. It’s as private as it gets here.
She nods an okay and follows me.
The hum of Brendon’s gun mixes with the grunge song pouring from the speakers. The singer mumbles about the agony of—well, knowing grunge, it’s something about heroin addiction or homelessness or meds for bipolar disorder.
It’s not an upbeat style.
Certainly not the appropriate soundtrack for this conversation.
I motion to my chair.
Quinn nods a thank you and takes a seat. She presses her knees together. Smooths her skirt.
It’s a loose brown thing that falls over her legs.
Between her shiny shoes, her skirt, her ivory blouse, and her tortoiseshell glasses, she looks like an artist on her lunch break.
Nothing about her says future doctor.
Or I want a tattoo.
Or I’m the kind of girl who ends up with a guy like Wes Keating, for that matter.
I fish her glasses from my backpack.
Her fingers brush mine as I hand them over.
“Thank you.” She slides them into her purse. Places said purse in her lap. Looks up at me with attentive posture.
I reach for some way to start. Find nothing.
She’s still scared.
I don’t know how to fix that.
Her gaze flits to the tile floor. “Listen, Wes—”
No, whatever she wants to say in that defeated tone of voice, I don’t want to hear it.
“I get it.” I roll my shoulders back. Suck a breath through my teeth. I need to reassure her here. I need to convince her I’m cool and collected.
“I—”
“It’s overwhelming thinking about how you can handle such large equipment.”
Her laugh breaks up the furrow in her brow. “You’re really—”
“You felt it.”
“That wasn’t…”
“Not at all?”
Her cheeks flush. “I was… well… um.”
“I’ll show you what to do.”
“Now?”
Fuck yeah. Take off your panties. You need to come on my hand. Now. “You that eager, angel?”
