Griffin (Ruthless MC 3)

I like that Red’s so obviously not regretting coming home with me. Just the opposite. She runs her hands over my chest and says, “I’ve never been with anyone with more than one or two tattoos—and none had what I would call artwork. You’ve definitely changed my mind about tattoos being sexy.”

A strange mix of pride and something way too close to jealousy surges through me at the thought of her dating other guys—especially ones with shitty tattoos.

“How long did it take to get all of these?” she asks.

I tamp down the jealousy I don’t want to be feeling. “I got the first couple of them when I dropped out of school, just because I could. But I learned the hard way that good artwork takes planning and vision. Now I’ve got an artist in L.A. who I hit up . . .”

I almost say “between gigs” but substitute “Uh . . . when I can” at the last moment.

“May I kiss them?” she asks, her voice polite, like she’s requesting something at a restaurant.

Another new request.

“Sure.” It’s no big deal what she’s asking, but my voice comes out a choked growl.

She kisses me once on the bird covering my right pec, then again on the roses covering my left clavicle. My dick pulses with each touch of her lips against my ink-covered skin, sending tremors of lust up my belly.

“And these?” She hovers one hand over the small tattoo underneath my right eye and the other over the black rose on the side of my face. But she doesn’t touch me or kiss me there.

A strange disappointment makes my revving engine sputter. I liked her touching me like that, putting her lush mouth on my ink. I want more.

“Griff?” she asks again, reminding me that I still haven’t answered her question about my face tattoos.

“When I started getting a bunch of tattoos, my dad said, ‘Fine, just don't mess with your face.’ He can’t stand when m—” I catch myself again just before I slip and say “musicians.”

“He can’t stand when men get face tats,” I tell her.

She lowers her hands and grins up at me like I’m an old friend she already knows. “So, let me guess, you immediately messed with your face?”

“Not immediately,” I answer, chuckling low. “You gotta play the long game when it comes to pissing off my dad. I let him think he won the argument for, like, a whole year. Then I showed up to Thanksgiving dinner with my face art. That’s how real rebels do it.”

She laughs, and the sound makes something warm pop off in my chest. “Did it work? Was he pissed off?”

“I think so.” I shrug and admit, “He's not the kind of guy who lets others see when he's upset. And he just changed the subject when my brother pointed out my face ink.”

“So, that's where you get it from.” She nods to herself, as if I’ve explained something clearly. “Your dad.”

I screw my face up. “I'm nothing like my dad.”

She clamps her lips, like she’s trying not to laugh at me. “Just so you know, the only guys who say that are people who are in serious denial about being just like their fathers.”

“Seriously, how are we back to talking about my dad again?” I ask, shaking my head at her. “Plus, you said it yourself. I mean, look at this place. This isn’t me at all.”

“Yet,” she says, holding up one finger like a professor. “This place isn’t you, yet.”

“You think I’m going to become a gentleman hunter?” I ask her, not bothering to hide how crazy I think she sounds.

She bounces her head to each side with a thoughtful look. “I think there’s more than one way to hunt. I mean, you didn’t just give up when I asked you to go away. You tracked down a Roxxy Roxx album, and this is where you brought me when I said I didn’t want to go upstairs at the roadhouse. So no, you’re not a gentleman hunter, but you’re comfortable enough here. And who knows how you’ll be when you turn your dad’s age? Maybe you’ll start smoking cigars and using antlers in all your decorating too.”

She’s fucking with me. Teasing me. And that makes me grit my jaw. “I didn’t bring you here to talk about my dad. I think we have better things to do than that. Unless you’re stalling.”

“And now you’re changing the subject, just like he did at Thanksgiving,” she crows, pointing at me.

I just stare at her. Hard.

And she gives in with an apologetic wince. “Okay, you got me. I’m totally stalling. I’ll stop that now.”

She looks at me for a long, strange time. Then she takes my head in both hands and pulls my face down to her lips, pressing her mouth to the under-eye tattoo on the left.