Savoring Mila (Rockers' Legacy Book 3)

My Mila was anything but boring. She was full of spirit and fire, and every word out of her sexy as hell mouth knocked me on my ass.

As she used a fork to eat a boneless wing smothered in barbecue sauce and dipped in ranch, she flipped through my portfolio. Every turn of the page, she made an appreciative noise, admiring my work, and I was filled with pride all over again. But nothing—fucking nothing—could compare to her saying she was proud of me for landing the job at Branch House of Ink.

My parents, aunts, uncles, and all my cousins had been so excited for me when I told them I was interviewing with Dustin. But all their excitement combined had nothing on how Mila’s eyes had sparkled in the passing lights as she’d commended me for my accomplishment.

“How many tattoos do you have?” I asked, spying the edge of some sick line work on her shoulder.

“Five,” she said, not looking up from examining the portrait I’d done for my cousin Mia’s husband, Barrick, of their baby girl. It had only been his second tattoo, and he’d sweated bullets the whole time he was in my chair. Unfortunately for him, it had taken a few sessions, but he hadn’t whined once. Normally when I got people who were as scared of needles as he was, they complained the entire session. “She is so beautiful,” she murmured softly, skimming her fingers over Emerson’s cheek.

“That’s Little Em,” I told her. “She looks just like her mom and grandma.”

She stuffed the last bite off her fork into her mouth. “You got a picture of her?”

If it had been anyone else, I would have brushed her off and told her I didn’t have any. But this girl was going to be Emerson’s family, so I didn’t hesitate to take out my phone. After pulling up the last batch of pictures I’d taken while I was at Mia’s house, I handed it over.

“She adores you,” she observed. “The way she’s kissing your cheek in this picture, you seem to be her favorite person.”

“Nah, her favorite person is her grandpa, Nik.” I leaned back, shaking my head at how spoiled Little Em was by both her grandparents. “I thought my niece Hayat was spoiled by my dad, but he’s got nothing on Uncle Nik and Emerson.”

She flipped through a few more pictures, but when I sensed her mood shifting, I leaned over to see what she was looking at. Seeing the selfie I’d taken of my cousin Arella and me, I hid a grin. From the stiffness of her body, the way her gray eyes were narrowed and her nose was flaring, I knew she was jealous.

“That’s Arella,” I explained when she didn’t ask about the picture. “Unlike a lot of my cousins, who are only honorary family and not actually blood-related, Arella’s mom and mine are sisters.”

“This is Arella Stevenson?” she half shouted, her eyes focusing on the phone screen once again. “But she looks nothing like this on TV.”

I leaned forward and stabbed my fork into another boneless wing before lifting it to her lips. “She refused to dye her hair blond, so she wears a wing. And supposedly, she spends an hour in the makeup chair every morning to look less like herself. Why, I don’t know. She’s a fucking amazing actress and beautiful as hell, but they wanted to change the entire shape of her face for that stupid part.”

Arella wasn’t happy working on that drama. It was in its third season, but my cousin said that it was likely the last one. She loved acting, but her heart just wasn’t in the character she was currently playing. After the show ended, she said she was going to branch out, maybe do some overseas work. Not that she ever needed to work. Between the money her grandfather left her, her sisters, and Aunt Lana when he passed the year before, and the trust fund her dad had set up for her, she didn’t have to work a day in her life.

But like me, and our other cousins, she wanted to work. Wanted to earn her own way and find herself in the process. The Arella who wasn’t just the rock legend’s granddaughter or the Demon’s daughter. When she’d landed the lead female role in that stupid-ass drama, people started saying she’d only gotten the part because of who her family was.

Usually it was jealous twats who wanted what she had and thought by trashing Arella’s name, they could build themselves up and steal her spotlight.

But she never let that bring her down. She only lifted her head higher and showed the world just how perfect she was for the role she was playing. Even though she hated it, she gave the job one hundred percent, and I respected her for that.

“Tell me, Mr. Famous Tattoo Artist,” Mila said after chewing the piece of chicken I’d fed her. “After knowing me for two hours, what tattoo would you give me to remember you by?”

“You want me to ink you, baby?” I asked, leaning forward to lick the smear of barbecue from the corner of her mouth.

I heard her breath hitch, and I pulled back, smirking down at her.

“I want to remember this night for the rest of my life,” she whispered. Then she blinked and cleared her throat. “You got your gear?”

“Never leave home without it,” I said and got to my feet. Walking into the bedroom, I grabbed the bag that had my tattoo gun, ink, and fresh needles. Going back to her, I laid everything out. “You’ll let me have free rein?” She nodded, continuing to eat. “Anywhere I want?”

“As long as it’s somewhere my dad can’t see. He has this one rule when it comes to his kids getting tattoos. He’s the only one who can put ink on us. I got my first tattoo at fifteen, and he and Mom didn’t have a problem with it because it was Dad doing it.” She looked up at me, her eyes full of so much trust, it took me a second before I could draw in a deep breath. “But I need you to mark my skin, Lyric.”

I wanted to grab her and mark every inch of her with my lips, possess each part of her, show her that she was mine. But once I touched her the way I needed to, it would be game over. I wouldn’t let her go until she begged me to release her, and even then, I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to watch her walk away.

“Take off your shirt,” I commanded.

Her fork paused halfway to her mouth, her eyes darkening with a hunger that had nothing to do with food. “Lyric—”

“You said you don’t want your dad to see it, Mila,” I reminded her, smirking at where her mind had instantly gone.

“Right,” she muttered. Dropping the fork onto the plate in front of her, she reached for the hem of her shirt and pulled it up over her head unashamedly.

Fuck. The air rushed out of my lungs as if I’d been punched in the stomach, and I just stood there looking down at her, entranced by her beauty. Her creamy skin only enhanced by the ink I saw on her shoulder and ribs. The way her tits pressed up against her wine-colored Victoria’s Secret bra. Her flat stomach and the freckle right above her navel.