Rogue (Dead Man's Ink #2) (12 page)

“You want to scribble messy equations all over my body?”

When he opens his mouth, he’s switched on the Alabama charm. “Why, I’m a tattoo artist. I ain’t never made a mess on nobody’s skin. And I sure as hell ain’t ever
scribbled
on anyone, either. Now, please be so kind as to oblige me while I create a work of art on your already perfect body, darlin’.”

The southern accent has always made me cringe, but when Rebel speaks slow and deep the way he just did, I find myself reacting very differently. Very differently indeed. I want to press my knees together again, to stem the building need I’m experiencing, but I can’t because he’s still kneeling in between my legs.

I am frozen marble as he takes the tip of the sharpie and begins to slowly draw on my hipbone. From there, he travels upward toward my belly button in an arcing beautiful cursive that incorporates long, sweeping blue lines and curlicues that dip down low onto my stomach. He doesn’t rush. He takes his time. I feel every hot breath he takes as he works over me, frowning in concentration.

I have no idea what true values the numbers or shapes represent as he marks them onto me, but he was right; this isn’t a scribble, and it’s sure as hell not messy. It’s remarkable. He works for another fifteen minutes, his movements becoming slower, more considered, as the seconds tick by. My nerve endings jump every time tip of the pen makes contact. My heart races a little faster every time he exhales over the expanse of my bare skin. Eventually, I realize he’s noticed my involuntary reactions and he’s taking his time with me on purpose, drawing this out, making it last longer.

His pen travels down, down, down, and I clear my throat. When he looks up, his face is already lit with a savage grin that I haven’t been able to see until now. “Little uncomfortable?” he asks.

“Just wondering if you’re going to color me in entirely is all.”

He laughs again. “I think you’d look great as a smurf. I’ve only just discovered how hot it is to watch you jump and squirm when I do this. It’s made my cock rock solid, Soph. All I can think about is how beautiful you’d look if I were tattooing you for real and this was a gun in my hand. I think watching you writhe around while you were getting inked would have me coming in a heart beat.”

A cold, strange shudder runs through my body—half dread, half excitement. There were lots of girls at school who had tattoos all over their bodies, some of which were real works of art. I never looked at them and thought, ‘yeah, that’s me,’ though. I never planned out what I would look like if I were to have some serious ink going on. It never even crossed my mind, mainly because I knew what my father would say if I came home with a tattoo. He’d lose his freaking mind.

“I’m not letting you tattoo me,” I tell him. “No way in hell.”

“Why?” Rebel puts the cap back on the pen and tosses it over his shoulder, looking devious. “Afraid?”

“Is this the part where you tell me I’m a chicken and it wouldn’t hurt?”

“Oh, no. It can hurt like a bitch, sugar.” Slowly, he ducks down and licks the skin just above my belly button, never taking his eyes off me. “It’s just that some pleasures are worth the pain. You wouldn’t know about that, I’m sure. I’ll show you if you like?”

I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want him now. I think he can see that in my eyes, because he smiles. “Are you wet yet, Sophia?” he whispers. “If you’re not ready for me, I can always color you in some more.”

I nod, struggling to keep my hands still beside me. It’s as though they have a mind of their own. I want to touch him. I want to bury my hands in his hair. I want to trace my fingers over the deep purple bruises on his chest, and then I want to gently kiss both of them. I imagine what his skin would taste like if I licked him the same way he just licked me, and my hands curl into fists. “No more coloring,” I whisper.

“As you wish.” Rebel kisses my body, sending wave after wave of pleasure soaring through me as he moves from the very start of the equation he’s just drawn on my hip, up, up, up my ribcage, until he reaches my left breast. It’s far from cold in the cabin, but my nipples have tightened to almost painful proportions already. It’s cruel, cruel torture when he takes my nipple into his mouth and gently sucks, trailing his tongue over my sensitive flesh, flicking it with the tip of his tongue.

“Oh…
oh my god.”

He sucks harder, and my back arches off the bed, curving into his body. I can feel how badly he wants me now. I’ve already seen how big he’s gotten but to feel his erection digging into my belly makes this whole situation seem more…I don’t know. Surreal in some ways? Because this isn’t me. I’m not the girl who grinds her hips up against a guy I barely know as he teases my nipples with his fingers and his mouth.

Rebel palms my right breast with his free hand, kneading lightly, breathing hard down his nose. Every single muscle in his body is tight and tense as he slowly starts to rock against me, pressing his cock against my pussy, creating the most amazing friction. I forget I’m meant to be a timid mouse in this situation.

I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer to me. Rebel groans as he continues to grind his body against mine, and the sound of his pleasure sends a sharp, demanding shockwave of need through me. I want to hear him make that sound again. I want him to be inside me when he does. My hands are working quickly, then, pulling at the waistband of his boxers.

Rebel takes hold of my left hand first and then the other, pinning them above my head. “I thought you wanted this slow.”

“I do.”

“Then don’t tempt me.”

He slides down my body, and then he’s pulling my legs apart even further, making a pleased humming sound at the back of his throat as he stares at my pussy. If I weren’t so turned on, I’d probably be cringing. Instead I’m biting on my bottom lip like a character out of some trashy romance novel, feeling electrified by the way his eyes travel so slowly over me.

“You want my tongue, sugar?” he growls.

“Yes. Yes, I want it,” I pant. “
Please
.”

He chuckles under his breath, running his hands down the insides of my thighs. “You’re incredible,” he tells me. “Just…fucking…incredible.” When he dips and teases his tongue over my clit, my head starts spinning. I have no idea how guys learn how to give head, but Matt could have done with some lessons from the school Rebel attended. He knows exactly what to do to set off those fireworks in my brain. It occurs to me that he’s probably so good at it because he’s had years and years of practice with god knows how many women, but the thought is fleeting. Neither my body nor my mind will allow me to think about things like that right now. Not when I could be floating on this cloud, feeling like the tether holding me to this earth could snap any second and I could drown in nothingness. It’s what I want. No, it’s what I
need
.

Rebel has me on the brink of coming and he must know it. Just as it feels like I’m climbing, lifting, rising to the top of some giant rollercoaster, he slides his index finger and his middle finger inside me and every last synapse in my brain starts firing.

“Jesus, you really do taste like sugar,” he groans. “I can’t get enough of you.” He only has to pump his fingers into three or four more times before he pushes me over the edge and I plummet, heart hammering, hands clinging to the sheets, vision narrowing and my ears ringing.

It takes me a moment to realize my thighs are locked tight around Rebel’s head and his tongue is still working over my clitoris, stretching out the end of my orgasm, making the muscles in my stomach and the backs of my legs twitch and flex.

“Oh, shit. Stop, stop.
Please
! Stop!” I’m laughing uncontrollably, but it’s manic, pleading. He’s driving me crazy. I’m way too sensitive for him to carry on. He stops, rocking back on his heels, a very smug smile spreading across his face.

“You taste like candy,” he says, as he gets up off the bed and finally removes his boxer shorts. I’ve been waiting for this for a long time. Sure, we had sex in the hallway at his dad’s place, and, yes, we did it again the other night, but I’ve never
seen
him. Never had the chance to check out what he’s got going on down there. Rebel seems to know that I want to see him properly. He doesn’t rush back onto the bed. He stands, shoulders back, covered in bruises, favoring his good side, but he doesn’t hide his cock. If anything, he’s pretty damn proud of it as he remains frozen to the spot, allowing me to get a good look. And he has every right to be proud. Matt was pretty straight laced, but he did like to watch porn with me every once in a while. Rebel easily rivals any of the guys we saw in those ‘movies.’ His cock is perfection. It’s actually
beautiful
. That seems like a strange thought to have about a penis, but it’s true. It makes me want to do weird things…like take a plaster cast of it and make myself a personalized Rebel dildo that I can tease myself with it when he’s not around.

“I take it you like what you see?” he asks. “You’ve got this look on your face. Somewhere between complete carnal lust and overwhelming relief.”

I laugh. “Overwhelming relief?”

He nods, climbing back up onto the bed, back up onto me. “Yes. Like you thought I somehow tricked you before and I was going to have a micro-dick.”

More laughter, though it’s strained now. I can feel him between my legs, pressing against the entrance to my pussy. If he so much as takes a deep breath, he’ll be inside me. And god, I want that. “I’m not…sizeist,” I tell him.

“Doesn’t matter.” Rebel pushes forward just the tiniest little bit, but the feeling of him entering me makes me dizzy in the best possible way. “Even if I had a two inch cocktail sausage for a dick, I could still make you come with it. I could still make you scream my fucking name. I know what I’m doing, sugar, and it makes me seriously fucking hard to bring you pleasure. Now, are you ready for me to make you come?”

His gaze penetrates me deep. The heat from his body on top of me is making my head spin. “I’m ready,” I tell him. And he pushes into me, slowly, with purpose, staring me in the eye, his arms braced either side of my head as he sinks deeper and deeper. He feels…he feels
amazing
. Before, things have always felt amazing, but this is something else entirely. He doesn’t pull back straight away; he holds himself in place, holding me in his gaze, and it feels like something clicks. That sounds ridiculous, but it’s true. It feels like the last tiny shred of resistance I may have habored concerning this man is gone, banished, destroyed, and now I’m screwed. I won’t be able to hold myself back anymore.

I’m surprised by the look in Rebel’s eyes when he finally pulls back, drawing out of me so he can repeat the motion. He looks surprised. A little shocked even? He shakes his head, grinning a little, and then he really takes my breath away. He supports himself with one hand, and then cups my face with the other, bringing his lips down on mine. Kissing him isn’t something I’ve daydreamed about. I haven’t allowed the thought to cross my mind. We kissed back at his father’s place, but we were both desperate then, fighting to control ourselves. We were ripping and tearing at each other like wild animals. Those kisses were intense and powerful, but our mouths were crashing together, devouring one another. Now, the way he kisses me is purposeful and direct. His mouth is soft on mine, but he’s in control. Lowering his full weight on top of me, he leans on his elbows, which frees up his other hand to brush the hair back out of my face, trace his fingers across the line of my cheekbone, my jaw, my temple. He moves slow just like I asked him to, but he makes sure he’s deep inside me each time before he draws away. I move with him, feeling trapped and safe beneath him at the same time, both scared and whole.

This is nothing like the encounters we’ve shared before. This feels honest. Like a promise somehow. He holds onto me so tight as he fucks me. It’s not long before both of us are shaking with the effort of keeping ourselves together. I lock my legs around his waist and we come at the same time, Rebel growling into my neck, crushing me to him as he climaxes.

We lay together, panting, unable to move as the early morning sunshine shines down on our bodies, and I realize that he gave me what I asked of him. He made me forget. He made me forget where he began and I ended.

And it feels perfect.

TEN

REBEL

Burying a body’s never fun. When you’re only burying part of it, it’s even less fun. Back in Afghanistan, my boy and I buried fucking dismembered arms and legs all the time. The Marine Corps were pretty diligent about making sure the pieces of people they were sending back to the States all belonged to the same body, but I’m guessing often times DNA got a little fused together. Not a pleasant thought. Really fucked up, in fact. I made sure the army knew I didn’t want to be flown back to Alabama if I was K.I.A. Told them I wanted to be cremated and scattered to the four winds from a rooftop in Kabul. Last thing I ever wanted to do was give my asshole father the pleasure of interring me in the Aubertin family mausoleum instead of burying me with my brothers in a military cemetery. He didn’t respect the time I spent overseas. He would have stuck me in the cheapest pine box he could find, left me on the bottom shelf underneath my mother’s dusty coffin, blinked a couple of times at what remained of his only son, then casually locked the door. He wouldn’t have returned until it was time for his own empty husk to be shelved and forgotten about, too.

Motherfucker.

Burying Bron is a different affair entirely. I’m sick to my stomach and in pain, but I figure if I have enough energy to make Sophia come then it’s only right that I have the energy to go out into the desert and dig a grave with Brassic.

As I thrust the shovel into the sun-baked dirt three miles south of the Widow Makers’ compound, sweat running in rivers down my back, running into my eyes, salt in my mouth, my head spinning just enough to let me know this is a really bad idea, I’m trying not to think about Sophia. I’m trying not to think about how edge-of-a-knife this whole thing is. I’m ready to burn the whole fucking world down for this girl. I wonder if she knows that? I wonder if she knows how many people I’d tear limb from limb myself in order to keep her safe.