Page 47 of Playboy’s Purgatory

Lara’s cheeks pink slightly and I look away and take in the wall again. So many memories. Just the two of them.

Fuck, I was a dick.

When I step away to head toward the door, cobbling together some version of ‘goodnight’ and ‘thanks for not smacking me for inserting myself into your life’ together in my head, she clears her throat. I’ve seen a lot of looks on my woman, but I’ve never seen her apprehensive quite like this.

She was terrified before the cake eating contest, don’t get me wrong, but this is a different kind of nervousness. This has vulnerability wrapped up in it.

My heart starts pumping faster and harder in my chest.

Lara blurts out, “When can I get on your schedule?”

I take a step closer to her without realizing it as a huge grin overtakes my face. “Anytime.” I tell her, just like I did her daughter.

Any fucking time.

“I’ll make room and work around your scheduling needs,” I promise.

Anticipation spreads through my body; I can’t wait to get my hands on her.

In my tattoo chair. Of course. Obviously.

CHAPTER 11

LARA

I have a few hours, a bikini in my purse, and a lot of gumption working in my favor right now as I step into Ridge Tattoos. I’m not just nervous. I’m beyond nervous; what I’m feeling right now borders on panic.

That feeling has nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with being afraid of pain.

It has everything to do with how close I’m going to be to Playboy. For hours.

I’m in so much trouble.

But I’m the one who asked him when I could get on his schedule. It’s not like I could take it back.

At the time, I wasn’t even aware those words were going to come out of my mouth. Not until they were already out there and I couldn’t change it.

The man moved fast. I don’t know if he had to move anyone’s appointment around or if he’s working outside of the hours that he normally would, but he eagerly made my availability work for him.

I’m resentful as fuck about the feeling his eagerness had rushing through me. It is nothing short of intoxicating.

Playboy is standing next to his tattoo chair like I just caught him trying to figure out what to do with his hands while waiting for me and coming up empty. A smile lifts his lips that is almost boyish. It makes me wonder what it was like growing up with him or any of the club brats.

They must have looked out for each other. I’m not going to lie, the thought of it makes me a little jealous.

I grew up with my sister always playing games and manipulating the people around me. There were years when I was never able to relax.

“Hey,” his voice is hesitant and it reminds me of playgrounds and skinned knees for some reason. “You ready for today?”

“I’m not sure, to tell you the truth.” I decide to be honest because today, no matter what else he has been, he’s a tattoo artist who is about to put in work and permanently etch his art into my skin.

“That’s normal,” he assures me and my shoulders relax a fraction.

Just a fraction.

Because no matter where we start with this tattoo, Playboy is going to be all up on me. Very close. Too close.

Touching my skin.