Page 6 of Scars of Silk

There’s an undertone there, something as bitter as dark chocolate.

I squint at him. “And you’ve read Dumas?” I’m being judgemental, but hell, he was judging me in the car on the way down here. I could sense his pessimism rolling off him.

“Nope, but Faith liked to read boring books and then tell us about them in great detail.” He flinches at the mention of Faith’s name and I pretend I didn‘t notice. It’s the quintessential British thing to do. His breath exhales in a huff and he lifts his shoulders and then allows them to slump. “Guess I don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

“I guess.” There isn’t much else for me to say on the matter. Apparently, he’s in love with his best friend—and I’d put that down to a rookie error. “So, where’s this coffee then?”

“You really want a coffee?” His stare is direct and bold. Flickers of light surrounded in dark. Just the way he says it and the look on his face makes my stomach warm, heat flooding down between my legs.

I can’t remember the last time I got laid. My schedule doesn’t exactly leave time for hook ups. “I need to make a call.” A tremor of expectation builds in my gut, pulling and squeezing.

“Go ahead.” He doesn’t move, doesn’t take his eyes off me. His front is impenetrable.

“Fine.” I pull my phone out of the pocket of my leather jacket. I don’t want to turn around. I don’t want to be the first to break the heavy stare between us, but I need to dial, and I don’t want him to watch.

I turn and press the screen, lifting the phone to my ear. “Cynthia.” I don’t introduce myself. “Can you tell him I can’t make seven?”

I wait for a response.

“No, not late. I wouldn’t dream of that.” I hold in a bitter chuckle. “Just not at all.”

Oh God. Warmth seeps up the back of my neck. Dan. The man with the tattoos. Heat rushes through me as his body shifts along mine. His lips dance up my neck and I hold in a groan. Holy fuck. It’s been a fair while since I had sexual intimacy of any kind, but hell, it’s like sitting naked next to a warm fire and allowing the flames to lick against my skin.

“I can rearrange.” My voice wobbles as I answer Cynthia’s clucking from the other end of the line. “Uh, I don’t know.” Shit! A molten river of heat spreads through my stomach. My knees bang together, two, three times. “Friday. Friday is free.”

Friday is not free. Friday is my evening. But it’s worth it, so worth it, just to have those lips sliding along my skin.

I hang up, my fingers slipping against my phone as they clam with anticipation. Turning, I swallow, pushing down any second thoughts.

It’s just sex.

I’m allowed that.

I’m a grown woman who can decide what hook-ups she wants.

It’s just sex.

“Show me a tattoo.” My words are breathy even to my own ears; fluttering on their way out like butterflies straight from their cocoons. His gaze is burning, heated and heavy.

Slowly, his eyes still on my face, he shrugs out of his jacket, letting it fall to the floor. Strong fingers gripping the edge of his t-shirt, he pulls it up and my gaze falls to his stomach.

Oh God. I’m going to burn. Light me up, now, it would be easier. His stomach is the sea, rolling waves expertly crafted around the curves of his muscles, crests rising and falling. Above the horizon, in the space of his ribs, birds circle in the air, banking on the wind. I can almost hear their cry in my ears. It’s beautiful and delicate, and not what I was expecting. I shift closer; my fingers grazing the ink. Under the swell of the waves, dark bruises are fading to yellow on his skin. Along with the bruises are cuts and scabs that haven’t healed enough for the surrounding skin to have returned to normal. “Shit, these wounds. How did you get the bruises?” I repeat my question from the car, unable to meet his eyes.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“To you, or to anyone?”

He shrugs, his fingers curling into tight fists. There is something utterly desperate and broken about him and it calls to a deep place within me. Locked memories and an aching loneliness grow, while a wild trembling builds up my legs, along my body, down my arms.

“Another tattoo,” I request, my tongue dry and tingling.

His hand reaches out, sliding around my waist, pulling me into his bare skin. The heat and the scent emanating from him might blow my mind. He’s barely touched me yet and I’m ready. I want him. I don’t know him, but I want him all the same.

“Just one time,” I mumble as his lips lower to mine. My heart is thudding so hard I can’t contain the pressure it’s creating. Anticipation and long dormant desires ripple their way to the surface.

“Just. One. Time,” he confirms.

His hands are on me and pull me closer, running along my collarbone, dancing with light touches. I want to tell him I’m not in the habit of sleeping with strangers—or anyone—but I don’t. I throw my head back and give in to his lips scorching up my skin; gasping as he nibbles my earlobe and it sends a dart of painful pleasure between my legs.