And that ain’t happening. We can’t do without our Janie. Girl’s the shit. Eight month waiting list tells the truth of it: every rocker, rapper and reggae artist on the West Coast wants a tattoo from her. Plus, she’s cool. She’d really helped me out today, with the asshats at the convention, and with Addison. No judgment.

“You suddenly have time on your hands?” I say to V. “I thought you were booked all day.”

“I was. Am.” He drops his chin, gives me the innocent look. “I’m done for the night. I could help you out.”

And I give him a fuck off grin. “I got it, V. Thanks for having my back though.”

“Anytime, man.” He pushes away from the door. “And by anytime I mean when a girl’s as smoking hot as this one.”

My gut twists up again like a fucking piece of licorice. Something inside of me doesn’t like hearing another guy talk about Addison that way. Granted, it’s true. She is smoking hot. But the caveman inside me wants to drag Vincent out back behind the dumpsters and kick the crap out of his Hollywood ass just for noticing.

“Shit,” I hiss under my breath, rubbing some goo into Cory’s finished piece before wrapping it up. I’m not going here again. Not letting myself go here again. Finish Addison’s tat, let her say her piece, get her off my ass and back where she belongs.

“Meet someone at the convention, brother?” Cory asks me as he unfolds from the chair.

“Just an old friend,” I tell him.

“Doesn’t sound old,” he says as I walk him out the door.

First thing we both see is Addison in the waiting area. She’s sitting on the black leather couch, the brick wall at her back, flipping through my book. It’s nuts how hard it makes me just watching her look at my artwork. She’s changed her clothes. No more garden party downstairs, no more pillowcase up top. Instead she has on a white wifebeater tank and a pair of pretty tight-fitting faded jeans. She looks casual and sexy, and I can see why Vincent was ready to give up his Saturday night for a few hours of working on her skin.

She looks up from the book then, and her eyes find mine and lock into place. They’re worried, they’re hungry, and they make me deliriously happy by not even flickering in Cory’s direction. The dude is a movie star, for chrissakes.

“Doesn’t sound old,” Cory says again, this time under his breath as he shakes my hand. “And definitely doesn’t look like a friend.”

“Nice to see you again, man.” I knock my chin at the glass door leading to the parking lot. “Good luck on the film.”

Cory gets the hint loud and clear, and with a wry grin, and a quick look at Addison, he takes a hike.

Once we’re alone in the waiting room, aka the rec room, I give her a nod. “Hey there.”

“Sorry I’m early.” She shrugs, her sexy, tanned shoulders lifting and lowering. “I’m happy to hang out for a while if you’re not ready.”

“I’m ready,” I say too damn quickly. “Come on in.”

She follows me into my den. When I built this place, I wanted to make sure there were private rooms as well as open ones, and it was a good thing too, because several of our more famous clients really appreciate it.

As she takes in the space, I close the door and lock it without thinking. Or, fuck me, maybe I am thinking. Maybe I’m thinking that I don’t want V or Janie interrupting us.

“This is so you.”

Her words, and the familiar warmth she coats them in, bring my head around. She’s checking out my home away from home, her back to me, offering up one hella spectacular view of her long legs, tight ass, sexy shoulders and thick, straight hair.

“Brick and leather,” she muses. “Concrete floors.”

She walks over to the one wall that isn’t brick. The wall that used to be just plain white plaster but as time went by has been taken over by my busy hand. She reaches out and runs her fingers over my shit; the paintings, the sketches, even the tags. It’s like she’s running her hands over me when she does it, and I actually need to focus on breathing right.

“You did these,” she says, her fingers tracing a large portrait of a man and his kid, both with skull faces. It’s not a question.

I come up behind her. She smells way too good to be in a locked room with me. “Every tat I create’s got to go up on the wall first.”

She turns around, her back brushing up against the wall. I think about easing off her, telling her to get in my chair and let’s get this show on the road. Fuck, let’s get this show over and done.

But do I move?

Hell, no.

“Every tat?” she asks. “Even mine?”

A piece of her hair’s escaped its pack, and I reach out to rescue it. My fingers brush her cheek and she breaths in, all quick and affected.

“No,” I say. “Not yours.”

Her eyes, those nutty, amazing eyes that I always begged her to keep on mine when we kissed or fucked, or hell, just shared a gallon of flat-assed coke after school at my house, flashed with gloom.

“Well, it’s amazing, Rush,” she says in a soft voice. “What you’ve done here. You should be really proud of yourself.”

What I should be is naked, her in my arms, my mouth going to work on all those pretty parts I know make her wild. But that’s off limits unless I want to suffer for all eternity.

“Come on,” I say instead, backing up, feeling the heat of her roll off my body and die away. “Let’s get started.”

Like a moron—like the guy who just wants that heat back again—I reach for her hand and lead her over to my chair. “So, how’s it feeling? Any irritation?”

She shakes her head. “Not bad. Frankly, my curiosity is irritating me more.”

I laugh softly. “Let’s have a look.” I gesture to the chair.

“Should I take off…” She touches the bottom of her tank.

“Yeah.” I grind the words out. My jaw’s getting as hard as my dick now.

I watch her when I should be setting up. She pulls the tank over her head to reveal a cream-colored bra, and I fucking stare like a middle schooler getting his first look at a girl’s naked skin. She hasn’t changed much. Long, lean limbs, but serious, deadly curves. Her ass and tits have always turned my brain to cheese, and my dick to stone, and I swear to god, it’s no different tonight. I honestly don’t know how I’m going to get through this tat without touching her.

She straddles my chair, her thighs flaring out. My mind starts ripping out images of all the ways I could use that chair to pleasure her. And it’s not the first time I’ve gone there. More than a few nights over the years, staring at that empty chair, picturing her in it, picturing me on my knees…

I frown. Thinking, fantasizing…they say it’s healthy. I say it’s bullshit.

I come up behind her, my skin vibrating with the need to touch her. The bandage lies directly above her bra strap, but I like a clear workspace, so I unclasp her, then grin when she inhales sharply.

“Should I take it off?” she asks me, and her voice is so breathy my cock knocks against my zipper.

“Only if it makes you more comfortable,” I say, peeling off the tape holding the bandage to her skin.

“Just trying to make things easier for you, that’s all.”

“Real thoughtful,” I say tightly. And maybe a little asshole-esque.

She sighs. “Rush…”

My fingers are moving too slow pulling up the tape. “Yeah, baby?”

“You don’t have be a total prick for me to get how much you hate me.”

Christ, her skin’s soft. And warm.

I’m so pissed off at myself and at her, and how her body’s calling for me to round first and keep going, like a goddamn third base coach, that I pull off the rest of the tape a little too hard. She sucks air through her teeth, and I turn away and drop the bandage in the trash.

I wish hating on her was the reason why I’m being such a prick. And not because my hands are fucking aching to be on her again, to steal around her waist and grope the shit out of her.

I’m silent as I set up, get the works in order. I’m kind of out of my mind with the tat I’m putting on her, but it’s too late now. It’s going to be sick, and permanent, and she’ll have me on her for life. Maybe as payment for ruining mine once upon a time.