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Fin’s hardy chuckle, but lacking an answer, has me cracking my lids open just to see anyway.
Okay, no dick.
But holy hell, the muscles that create that deliciously defined Adonis belt leading down into hislowjeans, one side riding down farther than the other thanks to the open fly, have my mouth watering and my hands aching to touch. To ink that bare spot along his hip that leads right down that line into his groin where his trimmed hair peeks out and taunts me.
I also don’t miss the lack of a secondary waistband.
Which means he’s fucking commando!
“Nope.” The word rushes from my lips, breathier than I intend, and I spin away from the incubus hellbent on ruining me with a hand to my damp forehead. “Won’t do it.”
“C’mon, C.” Fin’s callused fingers wrap around my free wrist and send yet another shock of electricity up my arm and down my spine.
Which is precisely why the answer has to be no.
No way I can sit through even twenty minutes of that shit. When touching him feels like licking a nine-volt battery.
I swallow when he jostles my arm and the traitor wiggles helplessly in his grip. And even harder when his hold loosens and his coarse skin trails across my palm until our fingers hook in a loose intertwine.
Which is nothing compared to how my body completely stops protesting when Fin tugs on me and I’m stepping closer as he pulls my hand down. Now I’m touching hot skin that makes my fingertips tingle and my stomach flip just like those leading ladies explain in the smut books I like to read.
Shit.
“Right here.” Deep and gravelly, Fin’s voice tickles down my neck and has me poking my tongue out to wet my lips.
I’m still staring at the canvas wall and pretending like this is just a dream and touching a guitar god that I’ve wanted since I was a teenager is just a thing I can do. Something I can get away with.
I know it’s not.
And that I’m not at all on the verge of hyperventilating.
But when I turn my head and see the tanned muscle beneath my touch, the sheen of sweat built up on his skin, and the primal look darkening his eyes, I snap my hand back like he’s on fire.
Cradling my wrist to my chest, I take a step back from his wicked grin and ram my lower back right into my toolbox that holds all my tattoo equipment.
“Fuck!”
Rubbing at the aching spot, I turn away from the infuriating man in my chair and let loose a growl.
Still, he doesn’t give me a reprieve as I suck warm oxygen into my lungs and curse again when all I inhale is him.
Fin’s heat is at my back, his scent burning in my nose, his hands on me, pushing mine aside and rubbing the aching spot for me.
It’s almost tender, which seems so unlike the Fin that I know.
But do you really know him?
Nope.
Right, thanks for that.
I shrug away from his grasp and the stupid voices trying to reason in my head and dip away from his grabby hands when he reaches for me a second time.
“I’m not inking you, Fin.” I shake my head, my hair falling around my face, and let my palm rest against what’s sure to be a bruise forming. “So can you just go?”
“Go.Seriously?“ When I look up, I swear I catch a flash of hurt disappearing from his face and being replaced with a scowl as he growls out the words.
Angry. That’s called angry.
