The pads of Silas’s fingers moved subtly, triggering a shiver from me. It got me to push through the end.

“After he’d shot me, Paul put the gun to his head and . . . he was gone.”

Silas jolted. I left out the part where Paul had been crying and cursing me for making him fall in love with a narc bitch, but hearing that I’d witnessed Paul’s suicide made the color drain from Silas’s face.

“Fuck.” He pressed down subtly, like he wanted to strengthen the connection. “Fuck, Regan.” Concern flooded his silver eyes.

I’d grown bitter about people looking at me like I was pitiful. Yeah, I’d fucked up. I’d begged Paul not to do it. So not seeing pity, but instead concern from a near stranger, did something unexpected. The angry response I usually had was nowhere to be found. All I wanted was to reassure him I was okay and to make him feel comfortable. I’d spent so much time undercover, worried about my own ass, it was foreign and wonderful to think about someone else’s feelings for once.

“It was rough.” My voice was unsteady. “I got through it. I want to put it behind me.” My fingers brushed up the length of his forearm until my hand was set on top of his. “Thank you . . . for helping.”

He held my gaze for an impossibly long moment. God, I’d been fucking lucky. If I had walked into a random tattoo shop, I wouldn’t have had any of this. Silas hadn’t just created the perfect art, he’d given me the best experience possible. Nudged me into the chair, coaxed the story from me.

When he wiped the towel over the tender skin, it wasn’t as if he’d simply wiped the memory away, but he dulled the sting somehow. His art would always be there to remind me of a better memory than the one beneath.

“No, thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

Silas’s skilled hand resumed passing ink into my skin. “For telling me. For wearing my art on your body.”

More warmth rushed through me, spreading like lava. “You’re welcome.” The emotional swing left me not knowing up from down. I swallowed thickly, needing to move to a topic that was safe. “Tell me about you. Did you always want to be an artist?”

For a long moment there was only the buzz of the machine. “Yeah.”

That was all he was going to answer with, after what I’d shared? I opened my mouth to protest—

“I did an apprenticeship at a tattoo place out in the suburbs and took construction jobs when the work was slow. I started doing freelance photography about five years ago, and that helped me save up to lease gallery space.”

“And it’s going well for you? You said you don’t do tattoos anymore.”

“Only for favors.” His tone was . . . coy.

“What kind of favor does Joseph owe you?”

A strange look developed in his eyes. The faintest hint of amusement? “Not Joseph. You’ll owe me the favor.”

I drew in a breath to push the irritation back, but it was barely contained. I didn’t like owing people. “The kind of favor where I pay you in cash as soon as we’re done?”

“Nope.”

“I’m not fucking you.” Wait a minute, no need to send mixed signals. “I mean, not in exchange for tattoo work.”

“But you’ll fuck me in exchange for something else?”

His grin was impossibly wide and the irritation turned inward. Well, I painted myself into that corner, didn’t I? No point dancing around it. “Yeah. The exchange is you get to have sex with me and I get to have a hard dick.”

Silas’s grin froze. It looked like his brain stopped working—everything behind his eyes was blank.

I pushed forward, goading him. “Are you up for that transaction?”

“Yeah, sure am.” He answered quickly, like he didn’t want to miss out on a limited time opportunity.

“Great. Then finish your art so you can take me back to your place and we can . . . transact.”

His tone was playful. “You don’t beat around the bush.”

“When I see something I want, I take it.”

Tags: Nikki Sloane Blindfold Club Erotic
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