Zane (Inked Brotherhood 3)

I can hardly believe it myself. But one thought keeps echoing in my mind: he wants to try. With me. It makes me want to smile and cry at the same time.

“I won’t touch your back,” I whisper, thinking furiously. “I promise.”

It’s the combination of things that triggers the attacks, I realize. Now it makes sense. Like in the park. It wasn’t just the water. It was the combination of being thrown into the water and being held there that freaked him out. And this… the combination of pleasure and the memory of how he got the scars.

Hence his rules. Not holding him down, not recreating the circumstances of an event that scarred him worse than the burns on his back. I can do that.

For Zane.

He nods once, his mouth pressed in a flat line. I can’t imagine what it cost him to tell me all this, open his heart until it’s raw and bleeding.

“But I need to see your face when we’re together,” I say and hate myself for asking more from him. Still, I have to do it. “I need to see you. It’s important to me.”

“Okay,” he mutters and lets his head fall back. He scrunches his eyes shut, and he grits his teeth. “Fuck.”

“I should go.” I don’t want to, especially not now, when he looks so defeated. “But I want something first.”

His eyes snap open. He stares straight at the windshield, then blinks. “What?”

“What do you think?”

His mouth tightens, then twitches. He’s struggling—with his memories, maybe? “Dakota…”

I love the sound of my name on his lips. Breathy. Sexy.

“What do you think I want?”

He frowns. He shoots me a sideways glance, and his gaze heats up. “My ink on you?” He’s hardening as I watch, the crotch of his jeans stretching tight over his erection.

“Yeah.” I take a pen from my bag and give it to him. “All the drawings you’ve made on me have been washed away.”

He licks his lips and takes the pen, his gaze a bit unfocused. He reaches down to adjust himself inside his jeans, and I suddenly feel too hot. God, he’s so sexy I can’t stand it.

“You don’t have any of my ink left on you,” Zane mutters and shifts closer to me, so close there’s a line of heat between our bodies. “That’s fucking unacceptable.”

His gaze rakes my body like a solid caress, stopping on the swell of my breasts, then my skirt and down my legs. I want his hands, his mouth on me, his cock in me, bu

t I just hold my breath when he turns in the seat to face me and trails his fingertips up and down my bare arm.

His face is a study in light and shadow, broad cheekbones, the slight curve of his nose, the straight dark brows over the hooded eyes, the elegant curve of his mouth. His chest rises and falls, stretching the thin fabric of his T-shirt over his sculpted pecs.

He strokes his hand down the inside of my elbow, making me shiver, all the way to my wrist and across my palm. He tangles his fingers with mine and draws my hand to his lap, on his thigh.

The pen glides over my skin, drawing straight and wiggly lines, and I wonder what bird he’ll draw this time. It tickles a little, but his other hand distracts me, his thumb rubbing up and down my wrist, sending electric shocks to my core. My eyes fall shut, and I swallow down a moan.

Soon—too soon—he stops, and I open my eyes. He’s looking right at me, the pen and the drawing forgotten, his eyes dark pools of desire. His hand travels up my arm once more, and he tugs me toward him.

My first reaction would be to lift my arms to place around his neck, but I stop myself in the last second. Unsure of what to do, I let him maneuver my body. He nudges and pushes me, until I turn my back to him, then he pulls me between his legs so that I lean against his chest. His hardness is thick and hot in the small of my back, the feel of it sending bolts of heat down my belly.

I know why he likes this position—why he prefers my back to him. Like this, there’s no way I can throw my arms around him and touch his scars. No way can I trigger a flashback.

And yet… “Zane, I can’t—”

“I know,” he mutters. “You need to see me. It’s in your folder now.”

What folder? I want to ask, but his breath brushes my neck, and he shifts, one hand circling my waist, then moving to the front, lifting my skirt.

A tremor goes through me, and my head drops back against his shoulder. I’ve dreamed of him touching me again, and even though I can’t see his face, I might go against my own rules and let him do what he wills with me.